


Fugitive

by philips



Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: Drug Use, F/M, Mild Language
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-13
Updated: 2015-07-08
Packaged: 2018-04-04 04:40:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4125789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/philips/pseuds/philips
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I've been arrested and imprisoned. I'm losing my mind. I don't think anyone is coming for me, or at least I haven't heard anything about it. The police interrogating me are the biggest fucks on the planet. Everything they ask is driving me back to a year ago, where it all began, where I had my fateful encounter with the man that started it all. Trevor fucking Philips.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chance Encounters

I sat down on the cold metal seat in the interrogation room, my hands awkwardly cupping together in the handcuffs they had slapped onto my wrists when they pulled me out of my cell. The thin beige prison uniform did nothing to shield me from the harsh air conditioning in the room. I assumed it was some sort of interrogative tactic, like making the prisoner uncomfortably cold was supposed to force out some new information or something. God, I hated the police.   
The gray cinderblock walls were reminiscent of the cells, as if some designer had come in and tried to bring everything together somehow. Do prisons even have designers? Are they helping with some other subliminal interrogative tactic, or is the crude and abismal décor of this place just from the efforts of the staff itself? I slouched in my chair and scoffed under my breath. After observing the walls and floor, taking note of the cameras mounted in the top corners of the room, I turned my head to look at the mirror on the wall across from the metal table. I’d seen enough crime shows to throw a good guess that there was at least one person on the other side of that mirror looking in. Subconsciously, I straightened myself out in my chair, a reaction I typically had when I realized I was being watched. I immediately hated myself for it, but before I could reprimand myself outloud and come off as a complete lunatic, the heavy door to the room burst open with a bang.   
“Well, look who we’ve got here, Hernandez,” one of the interrogators announced mockingly. The other, I assumed was Hernandez, drew a couple of chairs from the wall underneath the mirror and pulled them to the table, directly across from me.   
“If it isn’t our friend (y/n). Long time no see, girlie,” Hernandez responded, just as mockingly. “When was the last time we saw her, Bukowski?”  
“Ah, I think that was in the back of our cop car, Hernandez. Good ol’ chase she put up, too. One of the best, in my years. How about you, Hernandez?”   
“Absolutely, one of the best. Not good enough to get away though, huh (y/n)?”  
I sat in silence as they continued to exchange their taunt. I was too tired to fight with them, and I knew it wouldn’t do me any good anyway. I just looked at them, unamused. Their smug smiles didn’t fade from their faces one bit as they continued, and I could feel an everlasting and passionate hatred for these two men developing immediately.  
After some silence, Bukowski began to go on. “Listen, we know you ain’t stupid. God knows you couldn’t have done what you did without at least a little bit of smarts. Talk, don’t talk, what the hell ever. We just wanna ask you a few questions.”   
The two men stared at me expectantly. They were right, I’m not stupid. I know my fucking rights, and I don’t have to talk if I don’t want to talk. Unfortunately, I’m also not stupid enough to think that not talking would be the best option either. Pigs or not, these guys could ask questions that, answered well enough, I could get out, or at least get out early. I sighed, looking down at the table for a moment to think, before readjusting my position in the chair and nodding to them to go on. Hernandez and Bukowski glanced at each other and then settled their eyes back on me. As Bukowski spoke, I regretted not having asked for a lawyer. He leaned over the table with his hands folded together in front of him. In a voice much lower than his mocking one, much more serious, he spoke.   
“Tell us how you know Trevor Philips, Michael De Santa, Franklin Clinton, and Lester Crest.”  
______

Fuck. Fuck fuck fucking fuck.  
I pumped the gas pedal as my car sputtered and hissed its way off the Senora Freeway and into the You Tool parking lot. It rolled to a stop and made a sound like an old man coughing just before he dies. I pulled my keys out and shoved the door open, my thighs painfully unsticking themselves from the vinyl seat coverings. The engine was clearly smoking through the hood at this point, which I assumed generally did not mean anything good. I may like cars, but I hardly knew anything about them. I filed that away in my head as something to get back to, as I was too occupied at the moment to begin my new career as a full on mechanic.   
I felt around the driver’s side area for the lever to unlatch the hood. I felt my fingers brush over it, and I pulled it back, feeling a satisfying give as it unhooked the hood. I walked around to the front of the car. I could hardly see anything, let alone figure out what happened. Honestly, I had no idea why I bothered opening the hood anyway. A sigh escaped my lips while I ran one hand through my hair and shoved another in my back pocket to retrieve my phone. The plan was to call a tow truck and have it brought to the nearest customs shop. Not really being a local, I hoped to fucking God that there was one nearby. One look at my phone dashed the hope entirely. No reception.  
“Fuck!” I mumbled, restraining myself from kicking the car in frustration. If only the godforsaken You Tool warehouse was still open. It was late on a Sunday, and for some reason all the stores and restaurants north of Los Santos decided that Sundays meant not staying open past 3 PM. And it was already fucking 6:30. I glared at my car, and gave in to the urge to give it a kick in the tire. What a piece of trash. I knew that guy at the car shop was a snake. What was his name? Simon or something? God, I never should have bought a car from him. At least it was used, and I bought it damn cheap. You get what you pay for, I guess.   
After kicking the tire a couple more times, I grabbed my bag with my wallet and keys from the car and slammed the door and hood shut, locking the vehicle behind me. I guessed I would just have to hitchhike. Awkwardly, I held my thumb out into the road to signal passing cars. I just hoped to hell that whoever pulled over wasn’t some rapist murderer or some horrible shit like that. Anything but that. 

It felt like hours passed. Or maybe weeks. I wasn’t sure, but it was definitely getting late. The freeway was much less populated when you got further north than it was in Los Santos, and even the few people that did pass didn’t so much as slow down to see what was the matter. I dropped my arm again, having periodically given it rests from being held up with my thumb straining to be visible in the headlights of each oncoming car. I was about to give up finally when a car began to slow down. It was a silver Oracle, and I thanked the gods above that it was. It could easily be assumed that rapists and murderers did not typically drive Oracles. The car pulled into the You Tool parking lot beside my busted compact. I jogged over to the driver side window just as it began rolling down. A man in a brown flannel shirt leaned out of the window, one of his elbows poking out and hanging loosely over the door.   
“What do ya need, sweetheart?” He asked, smiling up at me with a very toothy smile. It reminded me a little of how Jack Torrance smiled at the beginning of The Shining, flashing his big “PR smile” to his would-be employer. At least this guy was like start-of-story Jack and not like end-of-story Jack. I smiled back.  
“My car kind of broke down, and I don’t have any cell reception out here. I was wondering if I could at least borrow your phone to make a call for a tow truck?” I asked. I had revised what I originally wanted, beginning to think twice about getting into a car with strangers. Wasn’t that exactly what I’d been taught my entire life not to do? The man in the car nodded a little at me.  
“Well, I could give you my phone, or I could just give you a ride. Your car looks totalled anyway, there ain’t any use in trying to salvage it.” His voice was gruff, but in a friendly kind of way. It felt almost reassuring. I looked over the Oracle at my car. He was right, it probably was totalled. I bought it for less than $5000, and a new engine would probably cost too much than I’d care to invest in such a cheap car anyway. I looked back down at the guy in the car.  
“Actually, yeah, if you wouldn’t mind, that would be awesome. I’m on my way back down to Los Santos, if that isn’t too far out of your way.”  
“For a nice girl like you, I’ll drive as long as you need me to.” The man flashed the wide PR smile again, giving me a faint desire to go back on the request. I looked up and saw the sky turning to a deep purple-blue, signifying the sun setting just behind me. This was probably my only chance at getting back home tonight, or even getting home at all this week. My feet started moving before I was even done thinking, and by the time I decided I should go with the guy whose name I didn’t even know yet, I was already in the smooth leather seats of the air conditioned chariot and travelling southbound on the freeway.   
“So, cupcake, what do I call ya?” The man driving asked, his elbow remaining comfortably over his car door while his other hand rested on the wheel.   
“My name’s (y/n). Yours?”  
“Trevor. Trevor Philips. What were you going all the way up here if you live in LS, (y/n)? You don’t look anything like the meth smokin’ ladies that Sandy Shores is graced with.” Trevors voice was low, sultry even. He sounded relaxed. It made me feel relaxed, as if my car hadn’t just been totalled. Suddenly, he pulled off of the freeway onto a deserted road that was running along the Alamo Sea. I didn’t recognize the area at all. I felt like I trusted him, though.   
Finally, I replied, “Oh, I was just visiting a couple of friends up in Paleto Bay. My car was already having trouble when I got up there, I should have known better than to drive it all the way back down to LS again.” I chuckled at myself, raising my own elbow to rest on the car door. Trevor responded with a light, throaty laugh in return.  
“Visiting friends, huh? You’re a good friend to go all the way up there just to say hey. Especially in that fuckin’ death trap. I wish my friends were that good to me.” He laughed again, although he sounded a little more serious about the friend thing. I didn’t pick up on it too much, as I was too distracted by the Alamo Sea to really process anything too deeply. The waters were pitch black, reflecting the now completely darkened sky. I was sad that I chose this weekend to come out here, as it was overcast the whole time and I didn’t get to see any of the legendary starry skies that Los Santos sadly lacked. The moon moved in and out of sight between thick and ominous storm clouds, so occasionally I could see the moonlight dancing off of the light ripples in the water. Trevor broke me out of my hypnosis.  
“So, (y/n). What do ya do, aside from look drop dead gorgeous all the time?” He looked over me as he asked, and I crossed my legs in my seat and folded my arms in response. It was an automatic response, and I felt sort of bad after doing it, but it was my typical defense mechanism when men started complimenting me an uncomfortable amount. I looked back at him and smiled warmly.  
“I’m a systems engineer at Maze Bank in the city. I get to help monitor the security systems and stuff like that. I know, it sounds kind of boring,” I responded, shrugging and turning my head to look out the window. Trevor fell silent for a moment, grunting in response to my answer. I continued, not wanting to fall into a silence with the guy. “What do you do?”   
Trevor cleared his throat, his grip on the wheel tightening slightly. “I’m, uh, a businessman. I run my own trade business out here in the desert.”  
“Trade? What kind of things?”  
“Lots of stuff. Stuff people out here need. That’s about all I can tell ya.”  
“Oh yeah? Top secret stuff?” I laughed lightheartedly.  
“Yeah. Something like that.” Trevors voice became more stiff than anything. I could tell I was prying at him. I quickly tried to change the subject. I couldn’t get his likeness to Jack Torrance out of my head, and I wanted to be on Trevor’s good side more than anything else. Before I began talking, we began to hear raindrops splattering against the car. Far off in the distance, chunks of clouds were illuminated by a few violent bursts of lightning.   
“Are you from around here, Trevor?” I asked kindly between the gathering rumbles of thunder overhead. It wasn’t too loud yet, luckily, but the rain was making it hard to hear a bit.  
Trevor visibly relaxed in his seat, his arm leaving the door as his window was rolled up and instead resting on his jean-covered leg. “I’m from the northern border regions of the US,” he responded. “Before you say it, I don’t have much of a fucking accent.”  
“Actually I was gonna say that I couldn’t even tell you were from there. You don’t sound like you have much of an accent at all to me,” I responded. Our eyes met for a moment, and he smiled over at me. Our drive had definitely taken a strange and unfamiliar turn at this point. We were headed up the side of the Alamo Sea, but I was too unfamiliar with the area and couldn’t see where the moon was in order to tell what direction we were going. We took a sharp turn into a road that looked like it climbed the side of a mountain, and that’s when I decided to finally ask what was going on.   
“Don’t worry about it,” Trevor assured me. “We’re on our way down to LS, I’m just taking a more scenic route.” At this point the rain was coming down in buckets, and he didn’t take his eyes off the road for a moment as he spoke. After crossing a bridge over a deep gorge, we entered a tunnel that ran directly through one of the mountains that surrounded the Senora Desert and the Alamo Sea. When we came out the other side, the road was more grass and dirt that the sand and gravel that coated the roads before it. The road was incredibly bumpy, and Trevor slowed down significantly in order to navigate the tight turns and to avoid slippery muddy areas. We turned another corner and started driving up a slight hill. I couldn’t make too much out in front of us. Trevor spoke up again, his voice changed a little. A little more melancholy.  
“(y/n), you seem like a nice kid. I hope you don’t hold this shit against me for all eternity or whatever fuck else happens after.”  
My heart began racing. What on earth was he talking about? Up ahead, what looked like a thick wall of logs began emerging from the rain.   
“After what? What the fuck are you talking about? Trevor, where are we?”  
Trevor grimaced and remained silent as he reached the end of the hill. A part of the wall swung open, and a couple of men with automatic rifles and hardly any clothes strutted out from behind the logs. Trevor climbed out of the car. My breathing became rapid, and my heart was beating out of my chest. This was it. This was the fucking end. Of all the people I could have gotten in the car with, I didn’t get in with the rapist or the fucking murderer but instead the fucking guy that was taking me back to a cult in the mountains to have God knows what done to me. Everything began happening at once. After having a brief conversation with one of the half-naked armed men, Trevor pointed to the car. To the passengers side. To me. The other man, the one he wasn’t speaking with, jogged over to me with his gun at the ready.  
“Get out of the car, youth!” He demanded. Without thinking, I drew the car door open, putting my hands up to indicate I wasn’t going to fight. My face felt hot, and I could distinguish tears streaming down my face from the heavy rain that was mixing with them. I looked over at Trevor, a mixture of confusion and anger on my face. Trevor looked back, seeming almost apologetic. What a fucking asshole. I couldn’t even put into words how much I hated him at that moment, a man I had known for only a few hours.   
Suddenly, the man that Trevor had spoken with shouted something that I could hardly make out over the crash of thunder that accompanied it. Trevor turned around abruptly when he heard the man, and then the man brought up the butt of his rifle and hit Trevor over the head with it. Just as I watched Trevor begin falling into the mud, unconscious, I felt something whack the back of my head, and my brain began feeling too large for my skull. My vision became fuzzy, and then everything went black. The last thing I heard was the sound of a body being dragged over mud, and the clap of thunder directly overhead.


	2. The Storm

Consciousness overwhelmed me. My head was throbbing like someone had hit me over the head with the butt of an assault rifle. Oh right, because they _had_ hit me over the head with the butt of an assault rifle. My eyes sheepishly opened, and at the same moment a large flash of lightning crossed the sky. I closed my eyes again, the sudden stimulus worsening the pain. I began taking into account the rest of my senses. I was definitely propped up against something, a rock I suspected. My fingers felt around the ground a bit, stirring up the mud beneath them. The rain was still falling, as it had been before we were attacked. We. Trevor and I. Where the fuck was that bastard.

I forced my eyes to open a small bit, and I cautiously moved my head around to see where I was and where he could be. I didn’t have to look far. To my right, he too was propped up against the large rock. He was breathing steadily, and his head was tilted back. It looked almost like he had fallen asleep there. His legs were sprawled out in front of him, his once semi-clean jeans now coated in mud. His hands were resting on either side of them with his palms facing up towards the sky. The pose was reminiscent of Jesus on the cross, had Jesus been covered in mud and set up against a rock with jeans and a flannel on. I slowly turned my head back to look at myself and make sure there weren’t any immediately fatal injuries. My legs were also covered in mud, and I became aware of a few stinging cuts in them. What a fucking day to wear shorts. I tried to move my legs. They could move, but I was still too groggy to move them satisfactorily. In other words, too groggy to carry myself out of the place without getting shot.

The sound of conversation began drifting through the pouring rain. My breath caught in my throat. I wished I wasn’t conscious. Being killed without knowing anything is happening is much more preferable to seeing your death coming at you slow and steady. I closed my eyes and rested my full weight against the rock again, at least mimicking unconsciousness. Maybe playing dead or at least close to it could buy me some time. Beside me, Trevor began stirring. He grunted and groaned, probably feeling the pain in his skull like I had. The voices were growing closer. I felt a hand grab my arm.

“(y/n)? Fuck, are you alive?” Trevor whispered at me. I opened my eyes again and turned my head to look at him. I nodded, knowing that if I opened my mouth now it would just release helpless sobbing rather than actual language.  I could feel the tears welling up again. I wasn’t even angry at Trevor anymore. I just wanted it all to be over. The terror, the anxiety, the everything. If anyone tells you that waiting for your inevitable and most likely gruesome death isn’t worse than actually dying, you can legally shove an entire cactus up their ass. It’s the fucking law.

In the darkness and the rain, a group of half-dressed elderly people armed to their teeth created a semicircle about twenty feet from us. They joined hands, and a roll of hellish thunder accompanied them. In unison, they began to chant:

 

_“Youth,_

_Ban deceit,_

_Eat of the flesh,_

_Drink of the blood,_

_We shall be free once more.”_

 

My skin crawled. Cannibalism. They were going to butcher us and eat us. Tears were streaming down my face like waterfalls. Trevor was still moving around, cautiously but with clear, concentrated urgency. His head darted left and right. What was he looking for? Another flash of lightning. The cultists looked demonic as horrid light glinted off of their weaponry and wet bodies in the flash. More thunder. The storm must have been directly over us.

 

_“Altruism._

_The greatest good_

_for the greatest generation._

_We shall boom again.”_

 

The raindrops began to feel heavier and heavier as I lost hope. My heart sank into my chest as if it had given up. Their chants were getting louder, like the storm was giving them some untold power. Trevor was shifting himself away from me, still looking for something. I decided not to care anymore. Nothing mattered. More lightning. More thunder. My eardrums throbbed. My eyes were drowning.

 

_“He has come._

_Hello seeker._

_Hello finder._

_We kneel before you;_

_We prostrate our continuing youth and vigor_

_At this altar that has been sent to us.”_

 

I began to shake from head to toe, my breaths growing more and more shallow. I drew my legs up to my stomach and circled my arms around them, curling into a fetal position. I pulled myself tighter and tighter, half hoping I could suffocate myself just to end this all before those fucking lunatics even touched me. Trevor was out of sight. I heard a metallic click somewhere in the direction I assumed he went. Someone outside of the circle probably had pulled a gun on him. The fucking idiot. At least he would probably go fast, then. I placed my hands on top of my head and shoved my still throbbing skull between my legs, trying to block out the horrible mantra. Through my tightly shut eyelids, I could still see lightning. The sky screeched. It wasn’t helping the Altruists- it was commanding them.

 

_“Hello finder._

_Prepare to be made pure._

_Purity is everything._

_Pure flesh,_

_Pure blood,_

_Pure everything.”_

 

The circle fell silent. The only sound was the pounding of rain against the muddy ground and the tin roofs of the encampment. I held my breath.

A hand abruptly grasped my arm roughly and began pulling me, tugging my back away from the wall. In another swift movement, a second hand wrapped around my mouth. My breathing became irregular and desperate, adrenaline coursing through me as my eyes searched the darkness for any indication of what was happening. My hands flew up and pulled at the hand around my mouth. Just then, a low voice spoke into my ear.

“Don’t. Make. Any. Noise.” I immediately stopped, recognizing the sound as Trevor. My hyperventilation continued, and I still searched around for any clue as to what he was doing. Did he have a knife to my throat? Was he just a ploy, meant to be the real killer? I found myself dearly wishing for a flash of lightning just so that I could know something, _anything_. Trevor removed his hand from my arm and hooked it around my waist, dragging me backwards. I realized he was circling me around to the back of the large rock we had been propped up against. He gently placed me behind it, and once I was sitting upright and didn’t look like I was about to run, he took his hand off from over my mouth and released his grip on me. He locked eyes with me as he squatted next to me, his eyebrows furrowed more angrily than I had ever seen in anyone else. He was breathing deeply, furiously.

“I found guns,” he hurriedly told me, shoving something heavy and cold into my hands. I wrapped my hands around it, recognizing it as an assault rifle just as those other people had had. Trevor grabbed a second one from beside him, gripping it somewhat carelessly. He had clearly been around guns before. “When I say go, you run. Do you know how to use a gun?” he asked, peeking over the rock quickly. I could hear continued chanting in the background, repeating their last mantra.

Terror flooded me for the millionth time that night. I swallowed my tears and managed a weak “Yes.” I didn’t know how to use it in combat, I was never in the fucking army or anything. I had learned for protection a few years ago, but that was a handgun and just sitting targets in a well-lit tunnel. Not a fucking automatic rifle with sneaking cannibals in the middle of the night during a fucking storm. I gripped the gun tighter. Trevor nodded at me.

“Good. We’ve gotta use cover, because we’re gonna be sitting fucking ducks if we don’t. There are shits all over this place. When you run, don’t go for the entrance. Go for cover. Any cover. I’ll cover you and then follow.” He didn’t break away from my eyes. I understood the urgency, more than he could know.

“Yes,” I responded again. He remained looking at me for a moment longer, seeming to evaluate whether I could handle it. A worried expression washed over his face for a split second, and then it was replaced with a smug, devilish grin. He nodded.

“Alright. Let’s fucking go, cupcake.” With that, he rose above the rock and opened fire. The bullets pierced through the pouring rain. Thunder rolled over us, attempting to compete with the skull-splitting sound of the fiery bits of metal flying through the air. I crawled hastily to the right side of the rock and looked around. I could hardly see anything. I began to panic. I couldn’t see anything. No cover. No way out. Nothing. I couldn’t even see where the cultists were. I could run and bump right into them.

From above me, bullets continued to fly in seemingly controlled bursts. Between rounds, Trevor finally commanded, “RUN!”

Without a second thought, I jumped up, holding the gun across my chest, and bolted forward. By the grace of some fucking god, a flash of lightning illuminated the sky, and everything was momentarily lit like it was day. I identified cover, as well as several bleeding bodies riddled with bullets. I tried to ignore them. I fell behind a couple of wooden crates, leaning my back against them and holding my gun at the ready out on front of me into the obscure darkness. At least I could be safe in knowing that if I couldn’t see them, then they couldn’t see me. Guns were still shooting, and not just Trevor’s now. The Altruists were firing back, unsurprisingly. Through the bullet storm, my ears picked up the sound of mud being splattered and moving towards me. Someone was coming. I aimed my gun at the noise, or at least in it’s general direction. I immediately realized that it was Trevor, and I relaxed a little.

He took cover beside me, breathing ferociously. He looked over the top of the crate. Could he even see in all this? I remembered the bodies. He could definitely see in all this. He retained his iron grip on his gun, and I watched him carefully. He occasionally reached over the top of the crates and fired off a few shots. Then, silence. No shots from him or anyone else. Only rain. His breathing remained heavy, as mine did.

“Trevor,” I breathed, “what now?”

He looked at me, almost surprised I was there. His surprised subsided instantly, and he grew serious again. He looked over the crates, longer this time, and then lowered himself back down beside me. “Looks to me that we’re halfway to the car. The fucking idiots threw themselves at me- I think I got ‘em all. But we have to be fucking fast in case any of those assholes are hiding in the bushes or some shit.” He glanced over the crate again, and in a flash he raised his gun, fired a handful of bullets, and lowered himself again. “When I say so, you fucking gun it to the car, and don’t look back. Get in it and duck. If I don’t get there after thirty seconds, fucking drive. Don’t wait. Drive.”

“But Trev-”

“I said. Fucking. Drive.” He glared through the rain at me, his eyes piercing through the darkness. I felt frozen. I didn’t want to leave him. Sure, he had betrayed my trust by taking me there, but he just as well could have left me there to die while he got away. It was obvious it would have been easier for him that way. My breathing staggered, and his gaze intensified. I broke from my paralysis, and nodded. He was about to move above the crates again when I drew my hand up, tugging at his arm. He ducked back down to see what I wanted.

“Trevor, I just- Thank you,” I breathed, my speaking cut off my another sob building in my throat. Trevor’s gaze softened. He placed a firm hand on my shoulder, shaking it softly.

“It’ll be fine.”

“But-”

“Run.”

“Wait-”

“RUN.”

His hand pushed me back, and my legs automatically forced me up above the crate, my mind still behind me next to Trevor as he stood up to cover my run. The exit seemed miles away in the distance. My gun felt heavy in my hands, but the adrenaline pumping through my veins kept me from being unable to hold it. I pushed through the rain, another lucky burst of lightning illuminating my path. More bodies. Many dead. And one alive. Armed. Headed straight for me.

I lifted my gun, pulling the trigger and aiming in the direction of where I had seen the cult member. After almost a full, panicked round, I stopped. It was then that I realized my legs had also stopped. A shot was fired, and a second. It came from in front of me. Then a third, coming from behind. Silence. Another flash of lightning. Only dead bodies now. I pushed myself to unfreeze and bolted out of the camp to the car. I climbed into the driver’s side, pulled the door shut, and waited, counting under my breath, simultaneously waiting for Trevor and trying to clear my head.

“One, two, three, four, five, six…” I heard more shooting. How were there still more of them? I hoped to dear God that they wouldn’t come over here. Please, please don’t.

“Twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen…” A boom of thunder. Rain slapped the windshield and sunroof, trying to break in, to get me. I became aware of the water all over me, the mud, the blood… My blood? My left shoulder began to burn.

“Nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two…” Where was Trevor? Warm blood was dripping from my forehead. My shoulder burned even more, as if someone had stuck a hot fire poker into it and then twisted. My whole body writhed in pain. I became aware again of the cuts and bruises all over my legs, and now even my arms. I couldn’t drive like this.

“Twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine…” I paused, closing my eyes. A decade passed between twenty-nine and my unsaid thirty. I waited, and then slowly reached for the keys to turn on the engine. My door swung open rapidly, and I was pushed roughly out of my seat into the passenger side. Panic swept over me, and for a moment the adrenaline covered up the painful injuries I was experiencing. My entire body relaxed as I realized it was Trevor that had come in. He, too, was covered in dirt and mud. No bullet wounds to speak of, somehow. Without saying a word, he revved the engine and swerved the car around, speeding through the mud down the hill towards a paved road. The car swerved again, and we started south on the Pacific Highway. Trevor was easily going at least 100. He glanced over at me once, and then did a double take. He pushed the brakes, the car skidding to a stop. I felt dizzy, and the heat in my shoulder began to radiate through my body. I began to realize that my shirt was caked with new blood, not just mud and dried blood. I was bleeding…?

“Fuck,” Trevor muttered, turning to me in his seat. “Jesus fucking christ you’re shot, fucking shit!” Shot? Who was shot? I didn’t understand. He grabbed my hands and pressed them against the burning spot on my shoulder. Pain shot through me, and I struggled to be free of his grasp. “Stop moving. Put pressure on it. Don’t pass out. Got it?” He glared at me with the same look as back at the camp. This was important. For some reason, I didn’t care so much. I just wanted to sleep. But I could see he was serious about this. I wanted to make him happy, in return for his help. I nodded weakly, and kept my hands on my shoulder, applying as much pressure as I could. As a precaution, Trevor kept one of his own hands over the wound with the other on the wheel. He sped up and zoomed down the highway, turning down Route 68 about twenty minutes later- a drive that would take the law-abiding citizen at least an hour and a half.

My vision began to dance in front of me, and the pain in my shoulder throbbed throughout my body. Even my toes hurt. I fought to remain awake, like Trevor had asked. Why was that so important? It was just a little nap. Everyone likes to nap on road trips. Another twenty minutes later, he pulled into some building in the desert. The Alamo Sea was behind it, a few roads up. I liked looking at that sea. It was a nice sea. It made me feel relaxed. Like going to sleep. My hands slid away from my shoulder, the pain seeming so distant now. Trevor’s hand remained firmly on it, except for a moment when he exited the car and ran to the other side to get me out. Why was he getting me out? It was so comfortable in the car. He pressed on my shoulder again, and the piercing pain pushed me out of my daze for a bit. Carefully, he pulled me up and out of the vehicle, pulling my right arm over his shoulder and hooking his left arm around my waist, firmly holding his right hand over my shoulder again. My feet awkwardly stumbled beneath me, and Trevor held me up as he guided me into the building. Everything inside was white, and extremely bright. Trevor began shouting, calling for someone. A bunch of people rushed at me. He held onto me, leaving the spot on my shoulder as people dressed in white, blue, and teal attended to it instead. His hand remained on my arm, almost protectively. I was put onto a comfy bed, and the ceiling began to move. Or was I moving? It was hard to tell. Trevor’s hand left my arm, and I heard him shouting angrily again. The people dressed in blue-ish colors were saying a lot of stuff I didn’t understand, and they had masks over their mouths. Did they know something I didn’t know? Agonized, I looked to where their hands were pressing, where all my pain was coming from. I hadn’t dared to look before that, and even if I had it would have been too dark to tell. But here, in the light, it was clear. I had been shot, and I was bleeding profusely. It hurt to look at. I tried to stay awake, like Trevor had asked. Because of my throbbing pain, I didn’t feel it as they stuck a needle in the crease of my arm. Drowsiness overcame me along with a feeling of overwhelming peace. I decided going to sleep wouldn’t be so bad after all. Trevor would understand. I closed my eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It won't be a trend of ending chapters with the narrator going unconscious, don't worry. But yeah, there's this thing! Personally, I'm impressed with my own consistency in writing two nights in a row. Thanks for reading!!


	3. Cancer

I rolled over in my bed, scrunching the pillow over my head. The only good thing that came from visitors’ day was that I could have some “free” time amongst all the other prison activities. I haven’t had a visitor since coming here. It wasn’t like I expected any- my family lived across the country, besides the fact that we didn’t talk too much anyway. We just aren’t one of those kinds of families. Friends I didn’t expect either. I don’t think any of them even know I’m in here, which I guess is a good thing. But god damn does it fucking hurt knowing that none of the crew has even said anything. Not one peep. I don’t know if they’re even alive. For all I know they could even have escaped to fucking Hawaii or some shit, considering all we supposedly got. It hurts to think about.

It’s hard to keep my mind from going to those kinds of places on these kinds of days, days where I had time to myself to just think. It makes me feel depressed and alone. So _fucking_ alone. I’m not trying to be a baby or to get any sympathy, I’m sure I had it coming and if I were in their position and had the means, I’d run for it rather than stick around trying to save a crew member from the law. I hope at least that they feel guilty about it. But still, I could be wrong. They could have been shot and killed. They could have been arrested too. I wouldn’t know either way; if they were killed then I definitely won’t be attending the funeral, and if they were arrested then they wouldn’t be in the same prison with me.

You know what? Fuck ‘em. It isn’t like moping around about it is going to get me out of here. I should do something productive, make something out of myself while I still sort of can.

Wow. _Who am I fucking kidding_. This is useless.

________

I pushed myself out of my bed and groaned as I sat up. My shoulder was sore as shit still. At least the stitches could come out soon. Carefully, I rose out of my comfortable nest and trudged over to my bathroom to get ready for work. Today was my first day back after about  three weeks out, and getting up before noon was unbearable. I’ve never been a morning person.

To save time, as I typically needed to, I brought my toothbrush and toothpaste into the shower with me, and I went about my normal routine. Shampoo, wash out, condition, brush teeth, soap, wash out conditioner, done. I winced as I washed over my shoulder. The wound had healed significantly, or at least the opening of it had, so it wasn’t so bad. I had apparently been pretty lucky, not to overuse that kind of cliché. Anyone that survives any kind of gun wound could be considered lucky. I could just imagine a doctor telling a patient, “Oh, you were shot in the left pinky toe? Five feet and nine inches up, six inches to the right, and that would have gone right through your skull. You’re lucky to be alive.” In all seriousness, the bullet was in my shoulder, going right between my collarbone and ribcage and stopping at my shoulder blade. It didn’t actually cause any bone damage, which is great for me because I definitely could not have afforded that kind of surgery or whatever a broken bone would have needed. Trevor had offered to pay, but I didn’t let him. I didn’t want to be indebted to the man that brought me to that camp to get eaten. I feel like him saving my life that same night kind of levelled out the playing field enough. The main reason I was lucky, though, was because the bullet hadn’t broken apart or anything. It hurt like a motherfucker, but it definitely could have hurt more. And getting it out of me would have been a much bigger production than it already was. Now I’m just waiting for the stitches to heal, and then after about two more months I can take off the sling. Then I can pretend like it never happened. Aside from the scar I will inevitably have for the rest of my life, reminding me of how shitty- and I mean _shitty_ \- that night was.

After getting my hair and makeup all set, I went to get dressed in my typical business-casual attire. I was a behind-the-scenes type person at the bank, so I didn’t have to look top-notch all the time. Just the days I knew there would be meetings. Luckily, today there would be none. I looked in the mirror. Even trying to look my best, the sling just made me feel pathetic. I sighed and walked out of the bathroom. Before leaving my apartment, I quickly changed my shoes from my low heels to flats. I forgot that I didn’t have a car. I wouldn’t be walking, but I’m not about to stand on a bus for twenty minutes straight in any sort of uncomfortable shoe.

I arrived at work a little early. I kind of expected it, as I had left earlier than normal because I was unsure how much longer of a commute I would have when on public transportation. Surprisingly, it wasn’t much longer. Los Santos traffic plagues all vehicles indiscriminately, it seems. My shoes clapped against the elegant tile flooring of the tallest building in LS, echoing off the halls. I wasn’t the only early bird. The reception desk was already aflutter with employees getting ready for a day of dealing with the most wealthy people in the city, or probably even the state. Maze Bank was well known to be home of millionaire’s money. You would never have guessed just how political banks can be. I mean, they separate political elections from elections to the board of the Federal Bank for a reason.

I continued on my walk, waving to the people at the desks as I waited for the elevator. As usual, they didn’t really notice me. The only attention I typically got in the morning was from the security guard that manned the turnstile gates that allow people into the employees-only area. Typically I flash my company ID, he nods slightly, and I go on my way. Today, after being gone for so long, he waited a few moments, then nodded and grunted at the same time. I took that as a “welcome back.” The elevator flew down a few flights and I exited on the floor above the lowest level. The lowest level was housing the vaults that were packed full of money, things representing money, and things as valuable as money. I had to be on the floor above it because, as I had told Trevor before he took me to the camp, I worked on the security of the vaults.

As I sat down at my desk and began booting up my computer after its well-deserved rest, I began thinking of Trevor, probably for the first time since the incident. I had tried not to think about him while I was recovering at my apartment, so I had flooded my time off with Netflix and other mind-numbing activities that didn’t involve “strenuous use of my shoulder and arm muscles,” as my doctor had asked. Now that I had time to myself, ironically while at work, my mind began to wander. What was he doing now? Probably hunting down another victim to bring to the mountains, I guessed. I remembered him being so concerned and helpful when we were in the camp, and especially when we were escaping to the hospital, but I was sure that most of that was affection built up from both adrenaline and blood loss.

Before long, my computer made the loud “bung” noise that accompanied the bright white startup screen. A gray iFruit logo was displayed in the middle, and soon the image gave way to my login screen. I typed in my password and the screen turned again to the prototypical iFruit screensavers of landscapes and animals. I wondered if iFruit was sponsored by National Geographic. In the silence of the second lowest floor, I heard the ding of the elevator and the doors slide open, heels rhythmically clicking along the white tiled floor. I immediately recognized the sound as my coworker Lauren.

“Hey Lauren,” I called cheerfully, getting up from my chair. Lauren was one of my closest work friends, or really in general. She sat at the desk in front of mine, so we talked most of the day away when we weren’t managing a security data change or something. She looked up from her phone at the sound of my voice and her heels began clicking faster on the tiles and then dampening as they reached the carpet, her arms reaching out at me.

“Oh!!! (y/n)! It’s been forever!” she chirped, embracing me. I could smell her pungent perfume. I somehow missed it. I pulled back from her, and we both took each other in a little. She was always dressed to go with the surroundings, so she often wore only white, black, and silver to work. Today was no exception. I noticed she had stopped her eyes on my sling and watched as her face contorted to honest concern. “Oh, honey, what happened?”

“Oh, that? I uh… well, it’s a long story...” I laughed nervously, following her as she sat down at her desk. I sat at mine and she leaned forward eagerly while her computer booted. I didn’t even think about what to say at work. Should I tell them I was shot in the mountains in the camp of a cannibalistic cult, or keep that under wraps and just say something stupid? Without much more thought, I blurted, “I was mugged. They stabbed my shoulder. I had to get stitches and wear this dumb thing, but I’m fine.”

Lauren’s mouth fell open. She was one of those people that was theatrically expressive. If you didn’t know her as well as I did, you would think she was making fun of you. “No, really?” she responded, leaning back in her chair a bit. “Well, I’m glad you’re okay, (y/n). Work was such a fuckin’ bore without you.” She smiled warmly at me then, and I heard the familiar bung as her computer booted up. “You wouldn’t believe the kind of stuff that’s been going on since you were out.”

“I’ve only been gone for three weeks.”

“I _know_.”

We continued talking through the morning as other employees walked in, nodding and waving their coffees at us as they walked by as a form of “good morning.” I was glad to be back, too. I had finally returned to my normal routine, to regular life. The only thing that connected me to that awful night was the stitches and the sling, and soon enough those would be gone.

For a couple of months, life went along uneventfully. It was refreshing. Getting almost-eaten can really make a person appreciate when they’re around people not out to kill her and serve her up as an au d'oeuvre. Life without a car wasn’t even so bad. Less money spent on gas meant less strain in meeting the rent on time. That was still, though, always such a race. It wasn’t like I wasn’t paid enough or anything, it’s just that living in this city is so damn expensive. Coupon clipping became a hobby quickly after moving to Los Santos. Regardless, I was happy. I was forgetting about everything that happened. After a couple weeks back at work, I got the stitches removed, and six weeks after that I finally got the sling removed too. I was good as new, save for the scar that getting shot inevitably leaves. For the first time after that night, I began feeling hopeful for the future.

It was around lunch time only a few days after getting my sling off that those hopes were dashed. I was getting my packed lunch ready at my desk, electing to refuse going out to eat with my coworkers. Reluctantly, Lauren and the rest of them left to go to a restaurant downtown. I smiled to myself remembering that reluctance and how nice it made me felt. Like I meant something. Just as I began to eat my packed sandwich, my desk phone began ringing. I groaned before picking it up, upset that my lunch was being delayed.

“Hello?”

“(y/n), this is the front desk.”

“Yeah, what’s up?”

“There’s a gentleman out here to see you.”

“Who?”

“He says his name is Trevor Philips.”

I froze in my seat. My breath got caught up in my throat as I tried to process what was happening. Quickly, I stuttered out, “I, uh, yeah, sure I’ll be right up.” I put the phone down and leaned back in my chair, covering my face with my hands. My first thought was how he could have possibly known I worked there. I then remembered that I had hid nothing when telling him where I worked. Probably not a great idea. I’ll remember that next time I get in the car with a complete and total stranger. What could he even want? To take me back there and finish the job? I had done him a favor by not reporting him to any authorities or anything, the least he could do is just leave me alone to forget about it. And it had been _months_ now. Why would he be so inclined to visit when I had gone so long without even thinking about him? He was like a cancerous tumor that you thought had gone benign, only to learn with growing terror that it was malignant as a motherfucker.

Finally I was able to force my limbs into motion, and I made my way to the elevator. I shifted my balance from my left to right foot and back again several times as I waited for the elevator, and I repeated the action while I stood in the enclosed room as it flew up a few stories. I half wished the elevator would just break and that I could be blessed with the gift of being stuck in it for hours. I was not so lucky. The elevator let out a soft ding, and the doors opened up into the employee hallway, just outside of the lobby. I became extremely aware of my walking and breathing. If you have never tried to walk while thinking about it, it is one of the most difficult things to do while still trying to look natural. I felt like I looked like a newborn giraffe, my legs and feet tripping all over themselves. I stopped in the hallway just outside the lobby, taking a deep and shaky breath and trying my best to compose myself before stepping out.

Leaning against the front desk was Trevor Philips. He looked horribly out of place amongst the well-dressed clientele and employees of Maze Bank. He had his back to where I was standing, so I had another few moments to walk up to him and figure out what to do. I became distracted almost immediately. He was wearing jeans again, and I wondered if they were the same ones he wore the night that we met. They didn’t look nearly as muddy and bloody as they should have been, so against all odds he could in fact have more pairs of jeans than just the one. He was wearing an army green Zancudo shirt, and I could see the definition of his muscles much more easily than I could in the flannel he wore when we met. If his forearms had been impressive, his biceps and back were something from another world. Whatever he did for work, it payed off well. I almost jumped out of my skin when he his head turned to look at me. I had spent the entire walk over just admiring him. The guy that almost got me killed. I shoved the attraction out of my mind, storing it away with what I had felt that night months ago.

He twisted his body around, grinning. There was that Jack Torrance smile again. I tried to smile back.

“Hey there, cupcake! Long time to see, huh?” he said cheerfully, nodding at me. I could tell he was looking me up and down through his mirrored aviators.

“Hi Trevor.” I didn’t break eye contact with him, regardless of how frightened I found myself to be.

“I, uh, came over for a few reasons. I need to talk to ya,” he continued, immediately recognizing my cold feelings towards him. He looked around the lobby a bit, then leaned in towards me, lowering his voice. “Not, uh… not here though. We gotta go somewhere a little less…” he leaned out again, looking around more, thinking. “Fuck… less, uh…  watched, I guess,” he finally concluded, looking back at me and scratching his stubble. My eyebrows furrowed slightly as I tried to understand what was happening. I evaluated my possible reactions. I could: A) go with him and possibly (probably) get murdered, B) refuse to go with him and possibly (probably) get hunted down and murdered, or C) go into witness protection, attempt to start a new life away from Los Santos, and possibly (probably) get hunted down and murdered still. Or, more simply put: die now, die in a couple days, die in a couple months. I sighed and pursed my lips.

“Okay. We can go.”

Trevor breathed out a gust of air, relieved I had said yes. For a moment, I felt bad for acting so cold to him. It took only a moment longer for me to remind myself why I was acting that way. I began walking to the exit of the bank, Trevor following. I grabbed my iFruit phone out and quickly texted Lauren to let her know I had to go out for just a bit and that I should be back soon. At least they would know something was wrong if I didn’t come right back. Once I was outside, I looked around for the silver Oracle that Trevor had driven when he had picked me up, but it was nowhere in sight.

“Where’s your car?” I asked, glancing over at Trevor impatiently. He pointed a few cars up the block to a red and rusty Bodhi. That makes more sense. We walked over to it in silence, and I climbed into the passenger’s side as he got into the driver’s seat. Soon enough we were on our way downtown, or at least about to be, considering the intense lunch-time traffic that Los Santos chronically suffers from.

Trevor glanced over at me while we waited at a red light, then looked back at the signal. “Looks like your shoulder’s all healed,” he said, his voice gravelly. I only nodded in response, looking out my side window so that he couldn’t see my face.

He continued, “Listen, (y/n),”

“I’m listening.”

He paused for a moment.

“I’m… I’m fucking sorry for what happened. Usually what happens is I bring total shitheads up there, and you aren’t one, and I was just looking for some easy cash that night for some- fuck, this is all coming out so fucking badly. Look. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. You didn’t deserve that. It was all my fault. I, uh, I really hope you can forgive me for it.” I turned to look at Trevor, and I met an intense gaze. It reminded me of when he had pulled me behind the rock that night, trying to make sure I was sane enough to follow his instructions. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat.

“I don’t understand. Why is it so important that I forgive you? You almost got me killed. Sure, you saved me, but I was still shot. I could have died. What kind of a person does that to someone?” I searched his eyes, looking for an answer. He held my gaze for a moment longer before a few car horns behind us signaled that the light had finally turned. He looked back at the road, speeding up impressively fast in his beat up old truck. He turned suddenly into the parking lot of… the Vanilla Unicorn? Was he honestly taking me to a strip club? Wow, I really do know how to pick ‘em. He parked the truck, pausing before he turned it off. He turned to me again.

“Look, cupcake, I’m a shitty person that does shitty stuff to people that sometimes don’t deserve it. But I’m gonna try and make it up to you. Maybe you can forgive me then.” He sounded angry as these words burst out of him, each syllable being uttered urgently. He looked at me once more and then climbed out of the truck. I followed, and we walked to the club. The bouncer outside nodded to Trevor, and I could make out a faint “Hey, Mr. Philips,” as we walked past. Was he a regular or something? It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dim lighting inside. Trevor turned abruptly just as we reached the tables and the bar, walking into the back. I continued walking behind him, nervousness building up in my chest. We continued down a dark hall and I caught a glimpse of the stage, a stripper dancing on a pole towards the end. I was then pulled in to another room, and I quickly recognized it as an office. Wow, things just kept getting more and more weird.

“Do you work here or something?”

“Work here? Cupcake, I fucking _own_ this place.” Trevor grinned as he grabbed a beer from the fridge, popping the top off on the corner of his desk as he took a seat on top of it. After taking a drink from it, he nodded over to the couch across the way, and I took it as meaning I should go sit down on it. I fell into it with a soft plop as the couch struggled to not only keep itself together but to support the weight of another human. It seemed to have been slept in a lot, the imprint of someone’s body- probably Trevor’s- clear in the cushions. Trevor offered me a beer, and hesitantly I took it and opened it up.

“So,” I said after a good chunk of silence, “why did we have to come here to talk?”

“Remember when I told you I was in the business of… trading things?” Trevor asked. I nodded. “Well, that ain’t the whole picture. I have a few of my guys coming over to talk, too. They should be here any minute.”

“What does that have anything to do with me?” I was growing impatient.

“Like I said, I wanted to make things up to you. If you hang around, there could be a lot in it for ya.” Before I could ask another question, the door of the office was thrown open. A man probably only a bit older than Trevor and definitely a client of Maze Bank strutted in, and following him was a much younger black man wearing a Families cap. The older man walked over to the fridge and grabbed two beers, tossing one to the younger guy.

“Hey T.”

“Mike, Frank. I’d like ya to meet (y/n).” He hopped off his desk at this point, gesturing  over to me as he introduced me. The older man walked over to me first, hold out his hand. I took it immediately.

“Nice to meet you, (y/n). Name’s Michael.”

“Hi, Michael, nice to meet you too.”

The other man stayed where he was, leaning against the wall, but he nodded at me and held up his drink, giving a small smile. “And I’m Franklin. You from around here?”

“Yeah, but I live further uptown. Nice to meet you, Franklin.” I remained in the couch, trying to not seem as stressed as I was. Who were these guys? What did Trevor mean by trying to make it up to me? Michael took a seat on the other side of the couch, resting his arm on the top of the back cushions.

“So, T, this is the girl you wanted to talk to, huh? You aren’t gettin’ soft, are you?” Michael teased, taking a drink from his beer as he finished his quip. Trevor mocked a high-pitched laugh at him.

“Yeah, fuck you too, M.” Trevor looked back over at me, his expression becoming slightly less annoyed. “(y/n), we wanna ask you something. _But it doesn’t leave this fucking room._ I’m fucking _serious_. It’s a big favor, but like I said, you could stand to get a lot out of it. So much that you can leave that corporate-America shithole bank you work at and do whatever it is you really wanna do. Or what the fuck ever.”

Michael interjected, “It isn’t gonna be that bad, and we’ve done it a million times before. You could say we’re experts in the field. All it’s gonna take is a little information that you’ll provide for us. It’s that easy.” Franklin looked between the two men, a pained expression going over his face. It looked like he had heard this before and hadn’t liked the consequence of it. I felt overwhelmed while Michael and Trevor looked at me expectantly. I had no idea what to say. Slowly, I made my mouth begin to form a coherent sentence.

“What is it you want to do?”

Michael and Trevor looked at each other. Franklin pushed himself away from the wall by his shoulder and began pacing the room slowly by the wall as he drank his beer. Michael sighed, and then looked back at me.

“We want to rob the Maze Bank.”

“What?”

“You heard me. You work there. In security, which is basically the goldmine for us. You could give us the details for the security system, we can figure it out from there. That’s it. We won’t name names or anything- we aren’t like that.”

I looked at each of their faces, confusion wracking my brain like waves of radiation. How the fuck had I gotten myself into this shitstorm? I realized that I had been cupping my hands together and had started digging my nails into the web of my fingers. I quickly tore my hands apart from each other and set them on my lap, looking down at them, trying to think. The room was uncomfortably quiet. I cautiously began to form a response, choosing every word with intense articulation.

“Let me understand this as clearly as possible. You want me to give you security data so that you all can break into the bank that I work at, steal from it, and then give me a cut. And you think that just by not naming me as an accomplice should you get caught, that I will not be found suspicious.” My words began rushing out faster, my anger beginning to build up behind them. “You think that there are no security measure in place to prevent me and other employees from doing just that? And you have the audacity to believe that a person that you have all known for a combined timespan of less than a full day would agree to do something that not only risks her losing her job but also her going to fucking jail? Are you fucking insane? Who the fuck do you think you are?” I stood up, glaring at all of them and breathing heavily. The room was silent again as they all took in my response.

“Jesus, T,” Michael finally said. “I thought you said she’d be interested.”

“Fuck you, Michael. I’ll see you guys later,” Trevor retorted, sitting back on his desk, dismissing the other two guys. Michael stood up to make his way out, Franklin waiting by the door.

“Maybe we’ll see you soon, (y/n),” Michael said to me as he walked out.

“Bye, (y/n). We’ll holla at you, T,” Franklin waved at me and Trevor and then exited after Michael. Once they were gone, Trevor burst out into a fit of laughter. If I hadn’t been so angry, I would have started laughing to. His laughs were contagious.

“What the fuck are you so happy about?” I huffed.

“You scared the shit out of them. I didn’t expect that from you, sweetcakes. That was something else, I gotta fuckin’ say,” Trevor responded, his laughter dying down. He cleared his throat, then grew serious once more. “We were serious, though. About the bank. It doesn’t have to be that, though. I know it’s a big risk for you, and like I said, I wanna make it up to you. How about you come around to meet my old pal Lester this weekend? I can pick you up at your place on Saturday and take you over.”

“For what?”

“He might have some other ideas on what we could do for ya. Plus it’d be nice for him to see a real-life human woman rather than the shit he probably gets himself off to online.” He took another sip of beer, then looked down at the floor, placing his elbows on his knees. I stood in front of him expectantly. “There was also a, uh, another reason I wanted to talk to you” he continued, looking up as he did and sliding off the desk. It was only then that I realized how close we were. He looked at me, his expression softened. All the memories of my attraction to him came flooding in at once. “I know I haven’t known you for long,” He finally said, searching for the right words, his voice falling into a deep, alluring tone. For once, I waited patiently for him to keep going. “I just feel like… you aren’t like any of the women I’ve been around. I’ve been fucking plagued by crack whores and users since day one. But you fucking talk to me. You’re a real fucking person and you talk to me like I’m not a fucking psychopath.” All at once, I became aware that his hands had gently wrapped themselves around my waist, planting themselves like leeches. My eyelids became droopy, as if I had been drugged. He looked into my eyes for a moment longer before leaning in and kissing me. It felt like a desperate kiss, but passionate all the same. I sank into it, relaxing and forgetting just exactly what I was doing and I kissed him back. I welcomed the violent cancer that was Trevor Philips.

After an eternity, the cogs in my brain began to turn. I was kissing a man that tried to get me murdered. I was kissing a man that just proposed to rob the bank I work at. I was kissing a maniac. I pushed out of the kiss abruptly, pulling up my arms and shoving Trevor away from me. “God, fuck, I’m sorry, I can’t,” I said hurriedly, grabbing my bag on the couch and looking away from Trevor. He took a step back, placing a hand on the desk to balance himself while the other rose to his face.

“Shit, (y/n), I’m fucking- I’m sorry-”

“I have to go.”

“Let me drive you.”

“I can take the bus, it’s fine.”

I walked over to the exit of the office, wrapping my fingers around the door knob. I paused for a second, guilt already washing over me for god knows whatever reason. I sighed and turned around, pulling a piece of paper out of a notebook in my purse. I scribbled down my home address and my phone number, placing the slip on Trevor’s desk. “Call me when you get to my apartment on Saturday. I’ll see you then.” Trevor looked down at the piece of paper, then back up at me. His confused look followed me as I left the office and walked outside to catch a bus back to the bank.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a thing. Sorry for taking so long, I've spent the last few days getting ready to graduate (less that 24 hours left!!) and planning out the rest of the story. I'm done planning, minus a few details here and there, so all that's left is just writing the damn thing. It's turning out to be a huge mouthful. Thanks for reading!


	4. Making Plans

My head rested on my hand, the truck’s vibrations gently flowing up my arm and into my cheek. The warm afternoon air swirled in and out of the uncovered front compartment of the vehicle, pushing my hair around. I kept my head turned, observing the uptown Los Santos bustle from the confines of the absurdly placed Bodhi. We were in a sea of neon as cinemas and bars began getting ready for the night to begin. Here and there, limos climbed in and out of traffic, surrounded by cars that could have payed for my college education twice over. I glanced into the side mirror, my eyes drawn to the clear-skied sunset that was forming just behind us.

Trevor had picked me up from my apartment without much issue. He had called a couple of times before coming over, letting me know when he was about to leave and when he was on his way. I could tell he was upset about the last time we had talked. Although I felt bad, I wanted it to stay that way. A part of me did, anyway. But every so often, I still found myself gazing at him with some kind of desire. He looked damn good, I’d give him that. His character wasn’t totally detestable either, or so far as I could tell. Sure, he was clearly a criminal and had a badly functioning moral compass a good chunk of the time, but he was also… I don’t know… Caring? Compassionate? Loyal?

I sighed, shifting my chin off of my hand and setting my arm along the open window, leaning my head back into the headrest. Trevor and I hadn’t spoken since getting in the car, and it was getting to me. Admittedly, I felt like the fact that we went through the Altruist thing together kind of helped us skip one or two months in getting-to-know-each-other time, at least. But sitting silently in the car with him, especially after what had happened, just felt worse than anything either of us could have said to each other. I glanced at him, catching his own eyes before he shifted his gaze back onto the road.

Trevor let out a sigh beside me. “I gotta say, cupcake,” he began, adjusting his grip on the steering wheel so that he could one-hand it while letting his left elbow dangle out his window. “You ain’t the easiest to read. I can’t tell if you’re fucking furious or giddy or what.”

“Giddy? What would I even have to be giddy about?”

“I don’t fuckin’ know, it was just a fuckin’ example.”

I huffed a bit, crossing my arms in my seat. He was kind of right on both counts, but I wouldn’t let him know that. Furious was right, but it was mainly at myself for getting into this whole shitty situation. Giddy was right too, because Trevor had promised something good to come out of it. I couldn’t believe that I still allowed myself to trust him. I checked that off on the list of things that were making me furious. In a monotonous tone, I finally assured him, “I’m not mad.”

“Well alright then!” Trevor burst, his voice more enthusiastic than before. “You’re gonna fuckin’ blow when you see what Lester's got, (y/n), oh it'll probably be a _juicy_ motherfucker.”

“Yeah, we’ll see.”

I kept my arms crossed, smiling a little at Trevor’s excitement before turning to look out my window again. It was like watching a little kid become super excited about something trivial he did at a friend’s house or something. You might not have any idea what he’s talking about, but just seeing him get all amped up makes you a little happy for him.

Trevor slowed up, pulling in to the lot of an old warehouse that was snuggled in the corner of the LS river and a bridge crossing over it. Large rusted letters erected on top of the brick block of a building read “Darnell Bros.” The place looked abandoned, but I guess that’s what makes it a good place to meet for people that don’t necessarily want other people to know that they’re meeting there. I climbed out of the truck after Trevor and followed him up some cracked cement steps. He looked at the double doors for a second before tugging on the right one. It tried to hold itself in place, and with an extra bit of force, it gave out with a thunk and allowed itself to be dragged open. More stairs. I groaned to myself, and I heard Trevor snicker out of the corner of his mouth in response. We trudged up the stairs, and I began making out the faint noise of some sort of machines. Once my eyes came level to the upper floor, I saw that I wasn’t too far off the mark; a few women sat at tables with sewing machines, working away. I guess the warehouse wasn’t so abandoned after all.

Trevor swung around me, raising his hands to cup around his mouth. “Lester! I’m with a guest, try being more fucking accommodating!” He looked over his shoulder at me, a mischievous smile falling on his face. Behind a door to the left of us labeled “Office” came some noises of fast and clumsy movement, and then the door swung open, revealing a chubby man with a cane wearing a shirt that was so tight on him that _I_ felt uncomfortable. He, however, was oblivious to it. Behind him, I caught a glimpse of Franklin and Michael in the room he had just left.

“Settle down, T. Come in, come in.” The man, presumably Lester, gestured into the room, hardly even looking at me before turning around and scurrying back in. Trevor looked back at me again, then turned and headed into the office. I followed suit, taking one last look around the warehouse before entering into the room. It reminded me of those hipster lofts back in Liberty City, with the bare brick walls and the windows made of thick paned glass. At the back of the room were a couple of desks cluttered with papers and a couple of computers, and at the front was a board with what looked like some plans all spread around it with arrows pointing to different pictures and a few maps dotted with red marker. Michael and Franklin were both sitting on the sofa that was placed beneath the large window, Michael leaning over with his elbows balancing on his knees. Trevor leaned up against the wall beside the door.

“Hey Trev,” Franklin greeted, waving a bit from the sofa. “Oh, and uh, (y/n) right? Cool seein’ you too.”

“Yeah, good to see you weren’t totally scared off. You’re lucky Trevor is soft on ya, or else he’d have probably eaten you by now,” Michael quipped, looking at Trevor more than me as he said it. I laughed, expecting it to be a joke. Trevor glared back at Michael rather than responding, and I could only think that maybe Michael wasn’t really making too much of a joke after all. Our conversation was soon drowned out by Lester as he searched his desk for some papers to finish up his plan, muttering to himself along the way. His nasal voice prevented him from saying anything quieter than a very loud and unstealthy whisper. Finally, with all eyes on him, he walked to the front of the room to the board with all the pictures and maps on it, pinning up a few extra touches. After setting the final paper, he turned around, spreading his arms in presentation.

“This is a good one. This is a reeeeally good one,” he began, taking his arms down and placing both of his hands on the top of his cane. He turned his head to look at the board rather than us. “I’ve been following the schedule for this carrier train, something that Trevor over here had told me about a while ago. It carries things that are nearly priceless, like works of art and other precious things. As it so happens, a rather lucrative shipment has just recently been made and according to the schedules and the security levels, we may just be able to take it.”

“This stuff is good,” Michael affirmed, looking at me and Franklin. “I helped T take down a shipment a while ago. It’s valuable stuff, that’s for fuckin’ sure.”

Franklin looked at Michael, nodding a little before looking back at Lester. “So what, Lest? Are we gettin’ some blood diamonds or some shit?”

“Actually, the exact opposite, my friend.” Lester grinned, pointing to a picture on the board of some pale jewels. “ _These_ aren’t blood diamonds. They’re blood _less_ diamonds. They’re all the rage with uptown-LS types and trust-fund hipsters. It makes them feel like they’re being humanitarian by spending thousands of dollars more on some rocks because they know that they weren’t sold to help fund a war. By the looks of the invoices, the rocks have been split into different shipments to be delivered in different ways so that the entire thing couldn’t be targeted at once. The easiest target for us would be the train delivery.”

“Woah woah woah, hold up there cowboy,” Trevor interrupted, pushing himself away from the wall and taking a step towards Lester. “Why are we only going after one fucking shipment? The fuck are we, amateurs?”

Lester shook his head. “Trevor, you know my policy on amateurs.” Lester glanced at me before continuing. I crossed my arms and looked down at my feet. “No, I don’t think you’re amateurs, but I do think that we don’t have enough resources to target multiple shipments of this cargo all at the same time. Besides, the train cargo is plenty.”

“You for sure?” Franklin asked.

“Oh yeah, I’m definitely sure.”

“Alright, then I’m fuckin’ sold,” Michael exclaimed, clapping his hands together and then pushing himself up from the sofa.

“Yeah man, me too,” Franklin added. He and Michael looked to Trevor. Trevor glared at Lester for a moment longer before looking back at his old friends.

“Fuck, of course I’m fuckin’ in.” He grinned, crossing his arms and then turning to me. I felt red hot suddenly, and I realized that they were all looking to me to see if I would agree too.

Up until that point, I had felt like a spectator, not at all involved in the decisions taking place but instead passively registering them. When the attention turned to me, I panicked. Without thought, I blurted out, “I’m in too.” The instant that sentence left my mouth, regret flooded my system. My blood felt like it was thickening, and my heart had to work a thousand times harder in order to pump it to the rest of my body. My lungs felt heavier, every breath adding pounds and pounds of weight. My body melted down as my brain struggled to maintain my composure. I felt something large hit my shoulder, and I looked over to see Trevor had slapped me on the back. I knew he was trying to be encouraging, congratulating me on my “bravery” to become a part of their crew, but all I could feel was suffocating grief. I blocked out the rest of the conversation, but it was not too long anyway; After a few final words, the four of us left Lester in his office and exited the warehouse. Once I got outside, the fresh air brought me back into the present, and I took a few deep breaths to steady myself and get a hold of what I had just committed to. I jumped when Trevor spoke to me. I felt like I hadn’t heard anyone speak in years.

“Not to be a nag,” he remarked, “but you’ve gotta go to a shooting range and brush up, cupcake. I know you said you’ve used a gun before, but back at the camp… well, that was unconvincing.” His tone was dotted with sarcasm, and it took a moment to register with me. Once it did, I forced myself to respond with a light chuckle.

“Yeah,” I forced out, straining to prevent myself from going through a complete breakdown. “I kinda figured. I’ll go tomorrow.” With that, our conversation ended. We got into Trevor’s Bodhi, and I sank into the plasticy-vinyl seat, letting out a deep breath. I think that Trevor was beginning to read me a bit better, because he didn’t speak to me for the whole drive. Had he, I most likely would have become an emotional mess. We drove in silence, and the bright Vinewood nightlife passed by us in a blur as Trevor took me back to my apartment. Before long, I had fallen into my bed, and I released my tears that had been welling up since before we had left the warehouse.

I woke up with my face sticky and my eyes crusted. I had cried most of the night. At least crying made me exhausted, because otherwise I wouldn’t have slept a wink. I hadn’t changed out of my day clothes when I got home last night either, and I quickly realized this when I began moving around and felt the uncomfortable creases and pokes that my bra and pants had inflicted on me while I slept. I sat up, rubbing my eyes to clean them off a bit. Maybe it was all a dream. Maybe I didn’t actually agree to rob a fucking train. I groaned and slouched over, cupping my head in my hands for a few minutes before getting out of the bed and walking to the bathroom to clean myself up and get dressed. I was set on having an at-home day. It was Sunday, and I deserved to have some time to myself to collect my thoughts.

After getting dressed in my sweats and a comfortable shirt, I threw myself on my couch and flipped on the television. I scrolled through Netflix for a few minutes, feeling especially picky about what I wanted to watch. I had exhausted all of the good shows on it, or at least all the good ones I knew of, so I was stuck watching old ‘80s movies. I selected _Escape from Alcatraz_ and settled in on my sofa, grabbing a blanket that was hung over the back of it and pulling it over my feet and arms. As the movie started, I began thinking about what I would watch next, not really paying any attention to the opening sequence. The first ten minutes of most old movies was usually just credits and B-roll anyway.

About halfway through the movie, just as Doc was raising his hatchet either to hurt the guard or hurt himself, there was a rapid knock on my door. Confused, I waited. It was pretty childish of me, but if I don’t expect anyone, then I just sort of wait until whoever is there leaves. Whoever was there knocked again. I quietly took the blanket off and tiptoed over to my door, hunching over to peer through the peephole. On the other side of the door stood a rather impatient looking man. Trevor. Why was he here? _Fuck_. I had told him I would go to a shooting range, hadn’t I? So that was real. So much for a day to myself. I straightened out my shirt and began fixing my hair quickly, then stopping myself when I realized what I was doing. I told myself I didn’t care, although my automatic reflex to look presentable was pretty telling. I took one last look in the peephole just as another succession of knocks hit my door. I grabbed the doorknob and pulled the door open just enough so my head and most of my body could fit through. I didn’t want to look like I was inviting him in.

“Well don’t you just look ravishing,” Trevor uttered, smirking a bit at me. I felt my face get hot as I blushed. I felt like a fucking dweeb blushing over a guy complimenting me. He was probably being sarcastic, anyway. At least, I was pretty sure he was.

“Hey Trevor.”

“You ready to go?”

“Yeah, about that-”

Trevor shook his head, taking a step back. “Don’t tell me you’re chickening out!” His face contorted into mockingly dramatic concern.

“I just don’t think that it’s so great if I get involved-”

“Listen, cupcake, I’m saving you from a world of regret. Fuckin’ trust me.”

I sighed, looking at Trevor with annoyance before nodding. “Okay. Fine. Let me get changed.”

“Fan-fucking-tastic,” Trevor replied, setting his hands on his hips. I’m not sure if he meant for it, but the post made him look much more intimidating. He  shifted his feet a bit, his playful grin not leaving his face. I think he was waiting for me to let him in. I only looked at him. “Well,” he continued after a few silent moments, the smile weakening, “I’ll be waitin’ in the truck, then.” With that, he swiveled around and strutted down the steps to where the truck was parked. I shut my door when I heard him slam the door to his Bodhi. I leaned my back against my closed door, taking in a deep, shaky breath and raising my hands to rub my temples. Today was going to be a long fucking day. Finally, I pushed myself off of the door and went to my room to change into regular day clothes. After adjusting my hair and outfit for a bit in the mirror, justifying it by telling myself I like to look presentable in public and not just to look good for Trevor, I grabbed my wallet and phone and then left the apartment. I jogged down the stairs and met Trevor again. He had been looking at his phone intently, the sound of my footsteps alerting him that I was coming. He shoved the phone into his pocket, then pulled on some aviators and honked at me jokingly. A smile formed on my lips without my consent, and I walked around the truck to get into the passengers’ side. Once I was in, Trevor pulled into the road again and began heading towards Ammu-nation.

“You know,” Trevor started, looking at me out of the corner of his eyes, “I wasn’t lyin’. You look fuckin’ good today.” I looked at him, smiling again as a reflex.

“Oh, thanks,” I managed, turning my head to him briefly before looking back at the road.

“Just so you’re aware,” he continued, glancing at me again, “I ain’t the kind of shit that hides his fuckin’ intentions. I’m not gonna jerk you around like that. I’m a no bull shit kinda guy, and that’s how I prefer the people I spend my time with.” As he spoke, he wrung the steering wheel with his fists. I turned my attention back to him, noticing how tense he looked. He was waiting for a reply. Was he inferring that I was jerking _him_ around? To be fair, I was being kind of ambiguous about how I felt. I kissed him, walked out, and gave no explanation whatsoever. I began to feel bad for him again. I’m a strong believer in not needing to give a guy a reason if you reject him, but with Trevor I hadn’t even outright told him that I didn’t like him back. Partly because that wasn’t true, and partly because I didn’t want to see how he would react. But what if I were just honest with him? What if I told him that I liked him, but I felt guilty about liking him because of how we met? Because of who he is and what he does? Fuck, that would probably hurt him even more.

After a bit of contemplation and some anxious waiting on Trevor’s part, I formed my answer. “I think that I just wanna be friends with you. Too much is changing for me right now. I couldn’t even begin to think about being in a relationship with someone. Even if I did want you as more than a friend, I don’t think it could happen. Not now.”

Silence shrouded the Bodhi for what felt like forever as I now waited for Trevor. He remained tense for a few moments longer before releasing a long breath out of his nose and relaxing his grip on the wheel, sliding his left hand off and dangling it out his window again, back to his old self. “Alright,” he breathed, keeping his eyes on the road. “Sounds good to me, then. So long as you don’t back out because you can’t handle your undying attraction to me,” Trevor grinned. I chuckled in response, relaxing in my seat as well. I finally told the truth. Or, at least, most of it. I did honestly feel like a relationship would be too much for me now, and that was the most important. And Trevor didn’t want to kill me, which was awesome. After days of feeling like I was sinking into quicksand, I suddenly felt as light as a cloud.

The truck pulled up on the curb in front of a large cement building with red doors cluttered with fliers. “Ammu-Nation” was painted above them. Trevor shut off the truck and walked around to the sidewalk while I climbed out. We walked up the steps, and he pushed the door open, holding it for me. I smiled at him and walked in, immediately hit with the violent smell of gunpowder. I slowed up, looking around the store as Trevor sauntered past me and swung his arms onto the glass counter in front of a wall of different firearms. The man behind the counter had been working intently on something that was resting on a bench against the wall, so intently that the thump of Trevor’s hands against the glass casing made him jump. He spun around, looking surprised for a moment before composing himself and putting on a cheery smile. His politeness seemed so out of place in a store that sold weaponry, but then again, it was still just a store.

“Howdy,” the man greeted cheerfully, putting his own hands on the counter. Trevor smiled enthusiastically. “How can I help you two?”

“The little lady here wants to learn how to use some big guns,” Trevor announced, pointing his thumb at me. “Would ya mind if we grabbed a few from the wall so I could show her the ropes in the shootin’ range?” Trevor pushed himself up from the counter and crossed his arms, leaning back instead to take in the wall of guns to begin selecting a few.

“Sure thing, why don’t ya point out which ones you want and I’ll take ‘em down and bring ‘em in. You can get all set up while I get the guns and what not,” the salesman responded, his words sprinkled with a very northern San Andreas accent.

Trevor looked back at me and gestured towards the other room. “I’ll meet ya in there, sweet cheeks,” he said gruffly, immediately turning back to the wall. I looked over the guns once more and then walked into the other room, finding the door to the shooting range and going inside. It was empty, and while I was at first surprised, I remembered that it was Sunday and that the people that spend their weekdays shooting guns were probably also frighteningly religious. A pair of noise-canceling headphones sat at each station, as well as two pairs of protective glasses. I chose the station in the middle and picked up one of each, pulling on the glasses and putting the heavy headphones on my head. They were pretty tight, but that was probably to minimize how much noise could seep through. Once they were on, I knocked on a few things around me to see how effective they were. I couldn’t hear any knocks on the glass that separated the range from the break room behind it, and I could only hear a faint tapping if I rapped on the wood siding of the station. I tried to see about the sound of metal, but my knuckles began to hurt too much to hit hard enough to make a noise. I pulled the headphones off then, resting them around my neck so I could easily pull them on again. I turned at the sound of the door to the range opening up. Trevor came in holding a couple of guns, and the man that had been helping him followed with another couple. They set them down, needing to divide them up between stations for the sake of room.

Once they were settled, the guy helping came over to us. “The ‘mmunition’s in the cabinets over there, along with the extra targets. I’ll charge ya at the end of your shoot for however much you end up usin’. Just swing around to the front counter if ya need anything.” With that and a friendly smile, the man left the range. Trevor grabbed the second pair of glasses and the headphones, sliding them around his neck just as I had. He then paced the range, looking at each of the guns closely before selecting one. He picked it up, took some ammunition from the cabinet, and then walked back over to me. After setting the magazines down, he held up the gun to me, letting me take it and hold it. It was a pistol, so far as I could tell. It was unexpectedly heavy compared to it’s size, but after a bit I became used to it.

“As I’m sure you can guess, this is a pistol. Specifically, it’s a combat pistol. High damage, pretty good accuracy,” Trevor explained, keeping his eyes on the gun as he leaned against the partition between our station and the one to the right of us. He picked up the magazine, handing it to me. “Here’s the ammunition. When you’re out, you gotta push on the magazine release button by your thumb there and pull the old magazine out, then slip the new one in. Keep it aimed at whatever you’re shooting at so you can get back to it when you’re done reloading. Since this pistol doesn’t have a magazine to begin with, put this one in first and then pull it out so you know how to do it.” I took the magazine, then gripped the gun with my right hand and raised it up to point at the targets already lined up at the back of the range. With my left hand, I took the magazine and slid it into the gun, feeling out the angle. It set in with a satisfying click. I kept my hand beneath the butt of the gun as I went on the press the button that was below my thumb. It released the magazine and I caught it in my hand. I looked back at Trevor, who had been watching me intently. “Good. Now do that a few more times so you know what you’re doing.” I nodded, then looked back at the gun. I redid the motion a few times, speeding up each time as I got used to it.

After another time of sliding it in, Trevor grinned. “Alright, good, good. Now we’re gonna do some shootin’.” He shoved his shoulder off the wall and walked closer to me, pulling his headphones over one of his ears, keeping the other uncovered so that he could hear me if I spoke. I set the gun down on the counter as I adjusted mine in the same way, keeping my right ear uncovered. I then raised the gun again and pointed towards the targets at the end of the range. “First off, you gotta relax. Keeping your arms locked like that’s gonna make you sore as shit with the knockback and it’s gonna kill your accuracy.” I adjusted my arms, bending them slightly but keeping them extended. “Good,” Trevor approved beside me. I felt something kick my feet, and looked down to him tapping them with his own. “You gotta change your stance. You’re standing with your feet too close. You gotta spread them apart to get yourself some more support.” I looked down at them momentarily, shifting my feet so that they were shoulder width apart with one more forward that the other. Trevor shifted behind me, and his hands reached my shoulders, pressing them down. “Like I said, you gotta fuckin’ relax,” he continued. I could hear his voice directly next to my ear as he gazed down the barrel of the gun at the target in front of us with me. I took a deep breath, letting my shoulders fall. I adjusted where I was pointing the gun, aligning it with the head of the target as well as I could. I placed my finger on the trigger, waiting for a second before finally pulling it back. The bullet escaped the barrel as the gun released a loud burst of thunder. I managed to keep my eyes open through the noise while my arms were pulsed back a bit. I lowered the gun and peered down the range. I could feel Trevor lean into my back as he followed my gaze, trying to get a better look. Once I saw where the bullet landed, I grinned. I hadn’t hit the bullseye down the middle, but I did hit very close to it. That was good enough for me. Behind me, Trevor moved and turned to look at my face, chuckling. “Well, I guess you showed me, cupcake,” he said, turning his head to look back at the target. “Fuckin’ beautiful.”

“I told you I’ve used a gun before. Just not a fucking assault rifle,” I responded, laughing a little. It was exhilarating to use the gun. It made me feel powerful. Trevor left my side to look at at the other guns, and I shot at the target a few more times, continuing to aim at the center. I was pretty good, my misses still remaining on the actual target, which meant I had at least kind of good aim. Trevor returned a few shots later holding a larger gun. I popped the magazine out of the pistol and set it down beside the gun on the counter. Trevor handed me the new gun and the magazine for it. I began to practice reloading the gun as I waited for him to tell about what it was. It reminded me of the guns at the camp a bit, but it was more lightweight. While I did so, I heard him bring up the mechanical hook that held up the target and replace the old bullseye with a silhouette target instead. I tried not to think about it as the hook slid back into place and moved to the back of the range. I looked up at Trevor after a few more reloadings and caught him gazing at my hands as I went through the motions, seemingly mesmerized. “What kind of gun is this?” I asked, trying to pry his attention away.

Trevor blinked his eyes, his face returning slowly to his playful enjoyment of being around firearms. “This, my dear, is a carbine rifle. One of my favorites. Fully automatic, high accuracy, and a fuckin dream to shoot with. Makes ya feel like a fucking god.” I raised the gun, pointing it towards the new target. “You gotta balance it against the space between your shoulder and your ribs, right in the soft spot,” Trevor pointed out, noticing that I was having trouble finding the correct grip. I did as he said, pressing it gently just to the right of the ball of my shoulder. I placed my hand around the grip that covered the barrel, feeling it out until I found the right balance and felt the gun was steady. I took a deep breath and pulled the trigger.

The range exploded with a rapid succession of shots. I was pushed back by the power of the gun, although my prepared stance helped me keep steady. I released the trigger and quickly pushed the safety down, dropping the gun on the counter and breathing heavily. That was more power than I wanted. I had held a pistol before, I’d shot one before, I was used to it. But that was something different. It felt evil. It brought me back to when we were at the camp and I was confronted by the cult member in the lightning flash. I hadn’t ever thought about if I had actually hit him at all or whether I had even killed him. I was too concerned with my own life to really care about anything else at that moment. But now, holding a rifle that was so clearly crafted to hunt people, I felt sick. I realized my hands were shaking. I set them on the counter as well, closing my eyes and trying to steady my breathing. I jerked a bit as I felt Trevor’s hand fall on my shoulder.

“Jesus (y/n) are you okay?” Trevor asked, a hint of a laugh in his voice. Anger welled up inside of me. How dare he laugh at me. This isn’t something normal people are asked to do. This isn’t something people that work a desk job at a bank are asked to do. How did I get into this? Why me, of all people? I was so plain, so mediocre, so average- how could I of all people been selected by fucking destiny or fate or _what the fuck ever_ to be involved in this.

“Fuck you, Trevor,” I responded through my teeth. “I’m not doing this.”

“Why the fuck not? You were doing fine!”

“Because,” I turned to him, my voice growing louder, “this is fucking insane! What’s the fucking point of it all? Why are you so intent on me learning to do this? Why are you so set on my being a part of that fucking job, on making it up to me for trying to get me killed? Why couldn’t you have just left well enough alone and let me be rather than popping up again and ruining _everything_?” I was straight out yelling now, huffing and puffing like I had just blown a house down. Trevor stared at me, his eyes wide, a mixture of surprise and fear on his face. We stayed like that for a minute, just waiting for the silence to end. All that could be heard in the range were my shallow and angry breaths.

At last, Trevor broke the quiet. “Holy shit,” he almost whispered, his voice low. “That was fucking _perfect_.” He let out a laugh, grinning at me.

“The fuck do you mean by that?”

“That’s the kind of anger I’ve been waiting for. Try using the gun again.” He picked up the rifle and shoved it towards me, his eyes hungry.

I pushed the rifle back at him. “Fuck. You.”

“Just fucking do it,” he insisted, shoving it at me harder. I glared at him, fuming. I grabbed the gun away furiously and positioned it against my shoulder again, my feet automatically taking the stance. I slipped the safety off and opened fire, hardly giving Trevor the chance to slip his headphones on all the way.

The range erupted again in the sound of gunfire for a longer time than last. My fury had spread through me like fire and was resting in my fingertips. I hardly noticed the kickback as the adrenaline from yelling at Trevor provided a cushion. I continued going in short bursts, finally ending when the clip was empty. Once I realized I was out, I held my stance, breathing heavily and peering down the tunnel at my target. I hat shot all around the chest. No exceptions. I gave out a heavy sigh as I set the gun down, nearly dropping it out of my hands. I felt like I had just expelled some kind of demon. Adrenaline coursed through me, making my body feel lighter than air. This time was different. Trevor was right. It felt better. It felt nice. Without the fear of what I was doing exactly, I just did it, and I was good. The adrenaline helped clear my mind of doubt and worry, and all I saw was the accuracy of my hits and the empty magazine beside the carbine rifle in front of me. I looked up at Trevor. He was delighted. He was grinning wide, his Jack Torrance smile yet again. I smiled back.

We continued on with a couple of other guns, including a shotgun and a sniper rifle. Both were okay, the shotgun having a satisfying kickback that gave it a very deadly feeling. Throughout them, though, I wanted the carbine again. I wanted the feeling of rapid successions of tiny metal chunks of death in my hands. I wanted the power. I wanted the feeling of being more than a nobody at my fingertips. I wanted to rob a fucking train.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this took a while to write. I hit a serious bit of writer's block while trying to figure out how to articulate what I wanted. I hope it reads well enough. I actually meant to post this last night but I got distracted by playing the actual game, which I think says a lot. The next chapter is gonna be a breeze, I think, and hopefully really fun to read. Anyway, thank you guys for the comments and kudos! It really makes me feel motivated when I see you guys enjoy what I'm putting out. I'll keep writing whenever I've got time (which is a lot now, hopefully)!


	5. The Great Train Robbery

The food here is disgusting, as one would probably expect. It reminds me of cafeteria food in high school. I’ve hardly eaten since I’ve gotten here, half out of protest and half because I just can’t fucking stomach the shit anyway. Today, however, my hunger got the best of me. I joined the line for lunch, gripping my plastic tray protectively as I inched to the left bit by bit. Once I finally got my lunch, I turned around and scanned the room for a seat. I haven’t exactly made many friends here, so I cautiously approached a table full of women that seemed the least threatening. I gently placed my tray down and sat at the seat at the corner of the table, making sure to look like I was not intending to intrude or join the conversation. Unfortunately, my maneuvers didn’t work. Once I had somewhat settled in, the woman beside me nudged my arm to get my attention.

“Hey, kid,” she greeted, her voice husky, like a smoker. I looked up from my food, responding with a friendly smile before looking back down at my tray.

“Who’s she?” one of the other women asked.

“I don’t know. What’s your name, kid?” the woman beside me continued, setting the bread that she was holding down onto her own tray. I looked back up at the two of them, swallowing my nerves before replying.

“I’m (y/n).”

“You new?”

“I’ve been here only a couple of weeks.”

“Well, I’m Sonya. This is Denise.” The woman beside me gestured to the woman who sat across from her. Denise nodded to me, pursing her lips.

“Why are you in here?” Sonya went on, picking up her bread again.

“Oh, I didn’t do anything-”

Sonya chuckled as Denise suppressed a grin. “Of course you didn’t, honey. So, let me reword my question: what do they think you did that’s landed you here?”

I looked between Sonya and Denise, as they watched me expectantly. “Well,” I began, looking back at my food, “they say that I robbed something.”

“Oh?” Sonya raised her eyebrows with faint interest. “What kind of something?” Denise shifted her attention between me and Sonya, half engrossed in the conversation and half engrossed in her own meal.

“A few things, I guess,” I shrugged, dropped eye contact and calmly taking another bite of my meal. I was starting to enjoy the small amount of attention I was getting. At least with these women I could be open about what happened, rather than trying to hide the details from prying police and detectives.

Sonya raised her arm onto the table, leaning on it as she turned her body to look at me. “Well, then, why don’t you start at the beginning. What’s the first job you ever pulled?”

 

___________

 

Being stuffed into the back of a ”nondescript” van is about as comfortable as it sounds. Lester had apparently used this van in multiple different jobs, replacing the license plates each time but never bothering to clean out the inside. Shot gun shells littered the floor, along with fast food bags and various other bits of garbage. Makeshift seats had been built into the sides of the van, but they were far from satisfactory. I could feel each bump in the pavement reverberate through my spine as Michael sped over them.

We had left Los Santos about an hour ago, and at this rate we had probably two or three hours left in our journey up to the quarries. Michael had basically been forced to drive by Trevor, as he had insisted to sit with me so that he could keep an eye on me. He now sat across from me in the back of the van, looking much more comfortable that he possibly could have been. Franklin had taken off in the opposite direction when we left, traveling north on the Pacific highway to meet us for the end of the job and to be our driver. Although I had originally felt bad that he was being made to basically be our chauffeur, I had begun to realize that he actually enjoyed the times he was just driving and not being involved in all the other stuff. He was a nice guy, I could tell that this isn’t what he wanted to be doing. He was just like me in that sense, and yet here we both were anyway. Weird how life can work like that.

I tried to keep my eyes occupied as we traveled up the Grand Senora Freeway, as otherwise I would lock eyes with Trevor every now and then and his look of concern would make me melt inside. I could tell he was worried for me. I was worried for myself. I had gone over the plan a thousand times in my head since I had sat down in the van, and my knee was bouncing up and down fervently to mark my nerves. Instead of glancing at Trevor, I peered out the front window or busied myself with checking my gun, making sure it was in working order. Lester had been in charge of getting all of the gear, like clothing and guns. Fortunately for me, the gun of choice for this job was a pistol, the gun I was most comfortable with. I may have enjoyed the power of the carbine rifle, but wielding it made me careless. My first job wasn’t something I wanted to be careless with. It wasn’t that I was trying to impress anyone, I was just trying to keep myself from hurting anyone. With the rifle, I could have easily pulled the trigger and shot someone’s foot- or worse. The pistol, however, was more normal in my hands, or as normal as holding a cold metal barrel of death could feel to someone that’s only ever killed flies and mosquitos. The pistol had been outfitted with a silencer and a flashlight, the same as Trevor’s and Michael’s guns. Lester had assured us, however, that it shouldn’t be necessary to use them. We aren’t supposed to run into any kind of human cargo when getting to the diamonds, so the only people that really stand in our way would be station workers if they’re still at the quarries once we arrive. However, Lester was sure that the quarries would be devoid of people, as the train wasn’t even meant to stop there that night. The fact that I wouldn’t have to kill or hurt anyone with the weapon in my hands brought mild comfort. I had only ever wanted to use a gun defensively, and so far it seemed that it would stay that way.

Besides the guns, Lester had also given us all black outfits to wear. I had expected that with jobs like these, according to Hollywood movies and generally uninformed assumptions,  everything we would use would be the most high-tech stuff available on the market and everything we would wear would be skin-tight and leave us indestructible. To my disappointment, the most high-tech things we had were our earpieces that allowed us to talk to each other, which were basically just hands-free walkie talkies. Besides those and the guns, Trevor had a small crowbar and I had been given a metal cutter to use on the lock of the crate, which Michael held onto in his bag. And even those were just a large pair of heavy-duty scissors. Clothing-wise, we couldn’t have looked less like those guys from Mission Impossible had we tried. We were given black ski masks, black cargo pants, black zip-up hoodies, black gloves, and black boots. The fabric was thin, meant only to keep us from being seen but not to keep us from flying bullets. Again, it wasn’t expected for us to run into anyone anyway. Even still, I would have appreciated at least something that was more bullet-resistant.

I drew my gloved hands from my lap and began examining the fabric of the gloves, hardly able to see even the stitching as it was so dark in the back of the van. Michael had the heater blazing in the front, and my head grew hot underneath my rolled-up mask that rested on my crown like a beanie. I didn’t mind so much, as I knew that as soon as we left the van I would be dying for the heater again; the desert was known to be cold at night, and I was not looking forward to it. I dropped my hands and began looking at my pants, mindlessly opening and closing the buttoned and zipped pockets, repeating the steps of the plan over and over to myself under my breath. Trevor shifted forward towards me, and I jolted in my seat as he began to speak. The van had been silent for so long that I had almost forgotten that others were in it.

“You feelin’ alright, (y/n)?” Trevor asked quietly, trying to find my eyes in the darkness of the van. I nodded, first lightly and then vigorously, realizing he probably wouldn’t be able to see if I didn’t overtly show it. “You’ll do fine. Me and Mike are old pros at this. Trust me, cupcake,” he responded, leaning back again. “God, you guys are making me feel miserable. Where’s the enthusiasm, the adrenaline? Jesus!” he added, louder this time so that Michael could hear in the front.

“I won’t be happy ‘til this is done, T,” Michael said authoritatively. “Once we got the stuff, then I’ll get excited.”

“Wow, what did old age do to ya, Mikey?” Trevor sneered. Michael chuckled back in a very “fuck you” manner before returning his attention to the road, muttering something about Trevor being a very large and prominent pain in the ass.

“How close are we?” I asked Michael, my voice feeling small coming after Trevor’s own.

“Probably an hour out now, (y/n). From now on we should start using just initials.”

I nodded, more to myself than in response to Michael, turning my head back towards Trevor and keeping my eyes down. I could feel Trevor looking at me, but I didn’t understand why. I knew that he still was attracted to me. He did nothing to hide it over the weeks of planning and meetings we had. I also knew that I was still very much attracted to him, but I did a much better job of keeping that to myself. Or, at least, I felt like I did. But his looks at me now were different. It reminded me of the night at the camp so many months ago, when he had given me the gun and was telling me to run. He was making sure I could do it. He was concerned. I gnawed on my lip a bit and then looked up at him, meeting his gaze.

“I’ll be alright. It’ll be good,” I assured him, my voice low to keep it between just the two of us. It was a complete lie, but at least it would put his own nerves to rest. He nodded slightly, the hazy lights of the freeway giving me brief images of his changing visage. I heard his feet move among the garbage on the floor of the van as he shifted his position again, trying to get more comfortable.

Finally, he responded, “Whatever you say, cupcake,” before grinning at me and turning his head to look out the front window again. I did the same, and every now and then I caught him still gazing at me from out of the corner of my eye. I held my attention at the front of the van, running through the plan over and over again as a fog began to settle over the dark road and cars ahead of us faded into red tail lights.

After a small while longer, Michael pulled the van off the freeway through the exit that would take us to Sandy Shores, turning right instead of left and heading towards the quarries. Trevor pulled down his mask and I did the same. Michael parked the car between some bushes near the entrance to the quarries before pulling on his own mask. We jumped out of the van, making sure to make as little sound as possible when closing the doors. It wasn’t like we were afraid to be robbed of anything in it, so whether the doors closed fully or not wasn’t much of an issue. I grasped my gun in my hands, holding it close to me as we all hunched over and silently made our way to the train platform beside the quarries. Lester had been right, it was silent there save for the occasional sound of cars swiftly driving past. The fog had really settled now, so it was hardly a challenge to keep ourselves from being seen. We focused on making each of our steps on the compacted dirt and gravel as silent as possible, making our way inch by inch to the platform. The cement block platform was bathed in a hazy but bright light. We slowly scanned the area. No guards in sight. I let out a silent sigh of relief. Over our earpieces, static started up before we heard Lester in our ears.

“I’ve got control of the cameras for now, I’ll keep an eye on you. The fog is making everything kind of blurry, so don’t depend on me. From the looks of it, though, there are a couple guys up in the control tower. Deal with them.” Lester’s nasally voice was even more piercing over the low quality of the radio waves. I hoped to God that “deal with them” just meant asking them kindly to please move along, or, at the worst, knocking them out cold. But maybe I wouldn’t even have to do it. I looked to my right at Michael. He looked back at me and Trevor behind me.

“Shit. There wasn’t supposed to be anyone here. T, (y/i), go take care of it,” Michael instructed, turning his eyes to look down at the end of the platform.

“M, could you maybe go and I-”

“(y/i), go.” Michael hardly even looked at me as he reasserted himself. My legs felt weak. I didn’t want to get up. I suddenly felt like giving up the entire thing. I had felt waves like this ever since agreeing to be involved, but this time it was a tsunami. The reality of what I could do was more frightening than anything else. Trevor nudged me to get my attention, then grabbed my arm and pulled me over towards him, towing me along as he maneuvered us away from the lights and over to the stairs up to the control room. My eyes were wide with panic. My breathing picked up and I struggled to suppress it’s noise from reaching the others’ ears. Once we reached the top of the stairs, Trevor rested himself and me against the cement wall beneath the windows. I felt dizzy and limp. I could feel it coming. Everyone had assured me I wouldn’t have to hurt anyone, have to kill anyone. But now it was happening. I felt Trevor’s hand on my arm again, but instead of dragging me anywhere or shaking me into reality again, he began stroking it gently. I felt his other arm wrap over my shoulders, his thumb rubbing my other arm softly. I peeled my eyes away from the abyss they were looking into and locked eyes with Trevor instead. My breathing slowed a bit, his efforts at comfort aiding a bit.

“We’ve gotta do it,” Trevor whispered to me, keeping the conversation from reaching the others. ‘“Just think of it as shooting another target. Just another target. That’s it,” he continued, squeezing my arm for an instant before drawing his arms back. “We’ve gotta do it now, cupcake. Now or never.” I studied his face for a moment before nodding, taking a deep breath and pulling myself up from my sitting position to hunching over on my feet again. He got on his feet as well gestured for me to follow him into the room. The door was already ajar, the guards most likely enjoying the cool desert breeze to prevent getting too stuffy in the small room. One was standing up and holding a foam cup, scanning the platform slowly and periodically taking sips from the cup. The other was sitting in a chair beside him, studying some papers on a clipboard. That or he was asleep. Trevor remained hunched over, making each step carefully to remain undetected. I copied his movements mechanically, and as he raised his gun to point at the man standing, I too raised my gun, only I instead pointed it at the man in the chair. It took all of my energy to keep my hands steady. I closed my eyes, forming the image of the target from the shooting range in my head. I adjusted my stance, relaxed my shoulders, and opened my eyes. Trevor held up his hand with three fingers held up. Slowly, he began pulling each one down. I applied the image of the target on the man in front of me. He was just a drawing of a silhouette on a piece of paper. That was it. Two fingers up now. My hands steadied. The man’s still head and shoulders made the perfect model for the target I was used to. Because that was all he was. A target. One finger up. I readjusted my aim by a few millimeters. No fingers up. We pulled the triggers simultaneously, a softened crack of a two gunshots erupting from our guns as the bullets escaped the barrels and perfectly landed in the heads of the two men. I closed my eyes instantly, not wanting to see the aftermath of what I had done. I began to shake again as I heard the thick thump on the floor as the man that was one standing fell to the floor. I heard Trevor stuff his gun into the side of his pants before he took a less silent step over to me and grasped my shoulders. I felt tears well up in my eyes. He then drew me closer and embraced me, my arms folding up between us. I said nothing as I cried into his shoulder, letting me get it out of my system for a few moments.

“It’s over, cupcake” he told me, his voice warm and reassuring. Somehow it didn’t help. My sobbing became dry and devolved into erratic breaths. “Come on, we gotta go,” Trevor added with a huskier voice, squeezing me close again before pushing me away by the shoulders. His face was serious, more so that I had ever seen before. “We have shit to do. You’ll be okay.” With that he gave me a grin, turned me around, nudged me forward. Laboriously I stepped out of the room and make my way down the steps, Trevor close behind me. We rejoined Michael behind the platform. Michael glanced at Trevor. Trevor nodded back , “We handled it.”

“It’s coming in a minute twenty,” Lester said over the earpiece, followed by a spurt of inhaler.

“Funckin’-A,” Michael almost hissed, turning his attention to us again. “You two ready?”

“Oh, I’m fuckin’ ready,” Trevor growled under his breath, clapping his gloved hands together quietly and rubbing them together with enthusiasm.

“Jesus, T ,could you be a little louder?” Michael snapped, leading us to the tracks.

“There ain’t nobody here, quit your fuckin’ whining,” Trevor responded, his mood not at all dampened. Michael looked over at me. I just nodded, not wanting to give away my nerves with an inevitably shaky verbal response. Michael looked back down the tracks, and Trevor and I followed his gaze. A light came out of the fog, and the sound of metal screeching against metal became louder as the train approached us.

“Remember, the load is on the fourth car and the car you’re getting onto is the seventh,” Lester reminded us. It wasn’t like we had forgotten, or at least I knew I hadn’t. The multiple rehearsals in my mind over the course of the trip had made sure of that. We crept onto the platform, remaining low now that we were in bright light. As long as there was no personnel to see us at that moment, no one would know but us and Lester. The train crept towards us, seeming to accelerate with each passing second. Finally, the engine car passed us. We all counted under our breaths the number of cars. The car we were supposed to get onto didn’t have a crate in it but was instead an empty bed, a perfect place to remain while we waited for our time to strike. The fourth car passed, then the fifth, then the sixth. With a practiced maneuver, we grabbed the side of the empty seventh car and simultaneously jumped up from the ground so we wouldn’t be torn off our feet, throwing ourselves headfirst into the empty bed. Although we had braced ourselves, we all let out groans of pain. We had only really practiced on either slowly-moving trains or fully stopped ones in the train yards in east LS. This train, however, was moving at about 60 miles per hour with no cushioning or shocks, making the metal hitting our head even more painful as it continued to vibrate and jolt against our sore bones once we sat up.

“You’ve got about an hour and forty five minutes until you pass over the Zancudo River, then about a half hour before you’ve crossed Raton Canyon into the Paleto Forest. You know the drill. Find something to do till you get to the river, then get what you need to get done in that half hour. Before that and you risk getting spotted. After that and you risk getting unloaded as cargo at the train station in Paleto Bay,” Lester informed us, going over yet again the plan that we had so carefully rehearsed. I picked myself up from the bed of the train and sat on the edge of it instead, my back to the outside of the train. It was most comfortable because it minimized contact between my fragile human spine and the less than optimal environment of the freight train bed. The wind buffeted our car as we weaved through the desert. Trevor got up from the bed and set next to me, Michael sitting across from us. I drew my jacket in a bit more to shield myself from the cold wind. I was suddenly thankful that we had so much skin covered, because otherwise I would be freezing. Trevor spread his legs out in front of him, crossing one foot over the other as if he were lounging on a couch. Michael seemed preoccupied, looking off ahead of the train.

“How are ya feeling, (y/i)?” Trevor asked me after we had been sitting for a few minutes. My mind had cleared up a bit after we had gotten on the train, completely forgetting about what had happened only moments before I had lept into the train bed. His words brought it back like getting slapped in the face. My heart felt heavy and I slouched over in a fit of regret.

“I feel like shit,” I admitted, avoiding his eyes.

“If it makes you feel any better, it gets easier,” he responded, mild warmth hinted in his words.

I scoffed a bit, looking over at him quickly before returning my gaze to the desert as we passed through it. The fog had cleared quite a bit, especially since we got deeper into the desert. I felt like I could see every prickle on every cactus. “That doesn’t make me feel any better.”

Trevor drew his legs back in and then hunched over on them, resting his elbows on his knees. He squinted out into the desert with me, letting out a sigh. “The Grand Senora,” he said, his voice whispy. “Fucking beautiful. Better than any fucking city on this earth.” He took a large breath in and out through his nose, his chest rising dramatically.

“Yeah, it’s nice,” I mindlessly added, my thoughts jumping from one topic to another in an effort to forget about the act of murder that I had performed not a half hour ago. I noticed Michael hadn’t stopped looking ahead of the train, his arms now tense. He had been pretty stoic throughout the job. “T, is M usually like this?” I asked, my voice quiet. Trevor hesitantly pulled his attention from the desert and looked closely at Michael, then over to me.

“He never used to be this fucking depressing. I think it’s got to do with his wife, Amanda. She left the house with the kids a little while ago.”

“Divorce?”

“No, no, no, just fucking some shitty yogi.”

“Oh.”

I craned my neck back to look up at the sky. I finally got to see the stars. The last time I was in Sandy Shores, it had been too stormy for me to see anything in the sky. Tonight, though, was beautiful. The sky was painted with tiny white dots of shining light. I felt as if I had been wrapped in velvet. I could feel Trevor’s eyes on me, as they always were, but I ignored them. I just wanted the night to be done with. After a bit, his eyes left me and traveled up to the sky to look at the stars as well. The three of us sat in the train bed in silence, waiting for the freighter to pass over the river so that we could start making moves. All that we could hear was the occasional scrape of metal against metal as the wheels raced against the rails.

 

Lester jerked us out of our trance as we neared the river. “You’re just about over the river. Get ready to go. You can’t waste a minute.” Another burst of inhaler. We all stood up, carefully standing so that we were steady as the train bed rocked on the track. Once we passed the river, we moved. Trevor led the way this time, grabbing the edge of the crate ahead of us, crate number 6, and pulling himself on top of it. Counterintuitively, the safest way to traverse the different cars was by walking on top of them. Trevor reached down and offered an arm to me. I took it and climbed up to the top. Trevor then turned again and pulled Michael up, grunting under his breath about Michael getting fat. Michael flipped him off as he passed by him and carefully walked down the car. Trevor gestured for me to follow Michael, and he then followed closely behind me. We crept over car six, then jumped the gap between car six and car five. I was always worried about that sort of thing, like if the speed of the train would be too fast and would whip itself out from under our feet if we left it for only a moment. I knew that by the simple laws of physics that wouldn’t happen, but it was still a gnawing feeling in my stomach that something so improbable was going to happen. I mean, hey, they told me that I wouldn’t even have to hurt anyone, and yet I ended up killing someone instead. The worst seemed to have already started happening.

Once we had all crossed the gap, we made our way across the fifth car to the space between it and the fourth, the car with the diamonds. The space between the cars was small. Big enough to fit any of us, for sure, but only one at a time. Even then, it would be tough for either Michael or Trevor to use the metal cutter down there. We had determined this ahead of time, Lester quickly determining that I would be the only one to definitely fit between the cars with the cutter. Michael quickly took the metal cutters out of his bag and shoved them towards me. I looked at the tool in his hands for a moment, then grabbed them and held onto them tightly. I turned and looked down into the gap. Fear coursed through my veins, scorching hot. I felt something grab onto my shoulder.

“(y/i), give me the cutters,” I heard Trevor say behind me. I looked over my shoulder just as Michael pushed Trevor’s hand off of me.

“Fuck, T, we already talked about this. Neither of us can fit down there with the cutter. She has to be the one to do it,” Michael said back, annoyance dripping from his words.

“Her first fucking job and you’re trying to get her fucking killed?”

“Calm the fuck down, T,” Michael huffed, looking at me. “Listen, (y/i). This is our only chance. If you don’t wanna do it, fine. But we won’t get a second shot at this.” He looked at me expectantly. Trevor glared at Michael, then looked at me, his face contorted in anger. I looked at the both of them and then decidedly slipped the cutter into a belt loop in my cargo pants.

“I can do it,” I asserted, my voice monotone. “Help me get down. “ I kneeled down and got ready to dangle one of my legs down into the space between the carts. The weight of the metal cutter paired with the weight of my gun made my pants feel as if they were going to fall off. Michael grabbed one arm while Trevor, hesitantly, grabbed the other, helping me guide myself down onto the latch that connected the two cars. I set my feet against the bed of the fourth cart and leaned my back on the fifth cart, staying uncomfortably diagonal as I moved the metal cutter between my chest and the door. This was definitely tight quarters. Trevor would have absolutely been unable to do this. Once I got the cutter around the latch and ready to break it, I shuffled myself to the left so that I made room for the right door to open up. Before I was able to strengthen my grip, I heard Lester over the headset again.

“Are you in yet?”

“(y/i) is at the door now,” Michael replied for me.

“You’ve got twenty minutes from where you are until the Paleto Bay station,” Lester reminded us. Another breath of inhaler.

“Don’t worry, (y/i)” Michael assured me once the static signaling Lester’s transmission was out. “We’ve got plenty of time.”

“I’ve got it,” I responded, looking up at them before returning to my task. Around us, the scenery changed from the rolling mountains to the dully lit tunnel that signaled the bridge over Raton Canyon was approaching. Regardless of the assurance, I felt that time was running short. I began to hurry, snapping the cutters into place and applying pressure as forcefully as I could. A few seconds of silence, and then a snap. I breathed out a sigh of relief, and then was jolted out of my stable stance as the train hit a bump in the tracks upon entering the bridge. Without my foot pressing against it, the left train door lashed out at me, hitting me over the side of the car. I let out a muffled, “Fuck!” as I flailed my arms out, grabbing some of the left over metal latch on the side of the door for dear life. The door crashed against its hinges, and the momentum of it tried to pry my fingers from the train and fling me into the gorge below us. Shit, it was a long way down. After the initial pull, the door stabilized, and I was able to pull myself up a bit so I could swing the door back over. My heart was beating out of my chest as I struggled to feel the train cart beneath my feet. I heard Michael and Trevor shouting profanities as gunshots erupted from above.

“L! There are fucking guards in the car!” Trevor barked into the headset.

“What? That’s impossible!” Lester cried from down in Los Santos, his voice drenched in panic as we heard him begin typing away at his computer. “There are no records of security being onboard!”

“M, you handle this,” Trevor demanded, ignoring Lester. Michael didn’t respond, but more gunshots followed. A black shape slid down the side of train car five and began carefully making its way over to the fourth. It was Trevor. I had managed to get my feet on the train bed, but I was stretched too much between grasping the top of the door and keeping my contact with the train that I would fall off balance in a heartbeat if I let go. The gunshots above began to slow down. It sounded like Michael had gotten most of the people inside, however many there were. Trevor held his eyes on me as I struggled to keep myself hooked on the crate door.

“Did you get ‘em all?” Trevor asked Michael. He had to wait for them to be gone in order to grab me without getting us both shot. There was a minute of silence before a final suppressed bullet flew through the air into the car.

“Yeah, I got ‘em,” Michael replied, letting out a deep breath.

Trevor slid into the area between the fourth and fifth car, where I had just been. He grabbed the top of the left door while keeping his balance between the cars, pulling the door slowly back to the crate. Finally, I dropped from the door, my back falling against the fifth car. I let out a harsh breath. Wordlessly, Trevor grabbed me and pulled me close to him and out of the way of the crate door. In one swift movement, he got the left door open again and then pushed me into the crate, following shortly after. Michael followed after he slid down between the two cars and nearly fell into the crate.

“Holy shit,” I breathed, falling against the wall of the crate to catch my breath. I closed my eyes, although it wasn’t much darker that the crate itself was inside. I don’t know how Michael could have possibly seen anyone in here in the first place. I heard a click and opened my eyes again to see Michael had turned on the flashlight on his pistol. Trevor did the same. As their lights illuminated the crate, my gut wrenched inside me. On the floor were four bodies. They could have been asleep had it not been for the bullet wounds in their heads and chests. Two of them were face-down. The other two looked up at the ceiling of the crate, wide-eyed, startled. My breath hitched in my throat and I looked away, diverting my attention to looking for where the diamonds were. I pulled out my own gun and made sure the safety was on before I turned the flashlight on and raised it to look around. The crate was full of many different boxes, all marked with different countries and provinces. We were looking for a box that was labeled to be from South Africa, where conflict-free diamonds are processed before export.

After about forty more seconds of searching, I recognized the name on a box stuffed in the corner of the crate. “Over here,” I whispered to Trevor and Michael, although the silence now was completely unnecessary. They shuffled over to me and looked to where I was pointing my flashlight.

“Fuckin’-A,” Michael replied, more enthusiasm in his voice than there had been the entire job. We began removing boxes from on top of the box with our prize, setting them haphazardly around us.

“Why would they put such valuable cargo in such an unprotected area of the crate?” I asked, attempting to keep my mind from drifting to the dead men that were only a few feet from us.

“Because diamonds are hard as shit,” Trevor replied, letting out a grunt as he set down another box. I couldn’t help but let out a chuckle under my breath.

“What he means,” Lester interjected as we finally made it to the target box, “is that diamonds are the hardest stone. They won’t be broken like if glass were there. Now I hate to break up this educational session, but you have five minutes before you reach the station. Get out of there. Now.” With that, Trevor took the small crowbar he had in his own belt loop and began to pry the box open. In a matter of seconds, the wooden box broke open. A few velvet bags rested inside, each tied with a gold string. They held the diamonds. The sight of them made my heart skip a beat. Knowing what was inside made me feel powerful, like the rifle had. Adrenaline pumped through me, not from fear anymore but from excitement. Without wasting another moment, Michael lifted them up and shoved them into his bag, zipping it securely and then turning to us.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” he said, turning again to walk to the door of the crate. Trevor and I followed. The Paleto Forest surrounded us in the darkness of the night. Trees whipped past us, and we could feel the train begin to slow down as it approached the station. “T, you jump first, then I’ll jump, then (y/i),” Michael dictated, getting himself ready at the door of the crate. Trevor looked at me through his mask. I nodded at him assuringly, and he waited a second longer before joining Michael at the door.

“Fine,” he huffed back.

“Alright” I replied, my voice louder and more confident than it had been all night.

Trevor grasped the door of the crate , spreading himself between the fourth and fifth cars. In his typical style, he wasted no time taking the daring leap from the train and vanishing into the woods. Michael looked over his shoulder at me before he, too, positioned himself outside of the crate between the two cars. He kept one hand on the door while he drew the other up protectively around the bag. After a deep breath, he threw himself from the train. Through the darkness, I could make out a soft thump and grunt as Michael hit the ground. It was my turn. Adrenaline still pumping through me, I felt no hesitance as I approached the space between the cars. The wind was refreshing against my hot skin once I exited the crate. I gripped the door and balanced myself between the two cars, taking a few moments to look out at the forest that was now much more slowly passing me by. The stars and the moon drifted in and out from behind the tall trees that surrounded the tracks, and their faint light provided me with enough guidance to figure the safest place to jump. I readied myself briefly and then jumped forward, tucking myself into a ball and rolling in the grass away from the train. It rushed past me, and soon enough it disappeared into the night. In the distance, I heard the wheels screech as the train came to a stop at the Paleto Bay station.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long to write! Lots of stuff goin' on with life, blah blah. I've got the whole plan for it, it's just frustrating trying to translate it into somewhat okay writing. This took a while mainly because I wanted to write some smut, but, having never written it before, it became really difficult and nerve wracking, and (unfortunately) I ended up just nixing it from this chapter. I hope this is good enough as it is, though. Sorry for how long it is, too, I hope it isn't overwhelming. Anyway, thank you for the comments and kudos, I hope you continue to enjoy the story!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!! This is my first fic ever really, or at least the first I've posted and have actually felt remotely okay about. I want to continue the story, especially because I have time now that school is over, but I'll wait to hear feedback and everything. Oh man, if only you knew what was about to go down, and what I've got all planned out. This is gonna take a while.  
> Also, sorry it's so long. I'll get the hang of standard lengths. I just have a lot to say I guess!!


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